ON BROKEN SLEEP

On broken sleep the world lets out a moan
As rubble conceals the flesh, its perilous deep
That burned one time like a bluesy saxophone...
Horrific wounds surrounding the panic, the dutiful
Profanity of War that comes to murder the beautiful.
Our broken sleep like madness under the skin
Will not let us fully rest, or breathe, or begin.

Lost sleep invites the tempo: three nightingales sing
In the Holy Land. And somewhere humanity brings
Beside the child and mother, the trembling orphan,
The sacred song that was never sung too often.
A deep winter night along the road to Bethlehem,
To Nablus, or Jerusalem. So shall they but weep,
As Jesus once wept for these tormented streets?