Shots in the desert

Curled, on one side
sleep alludes me.
Huddled against artificial cold,
the tick of the clock,
a monstrous metronome
reminding me
that sleep, I cannot.
Prayers and good wishes
rises ceaselessly
‘Get well Father’,
‘Sorry you are ill’
in my self indulgent sickbed
but it is not feverish dreams
that trouble my aching mind
but a gunshot
three thousand miles away.
I cannot hear it
with ear, or newspaper
But I can feel it
as it rips through
the fractured, manmade communion.
Enduring by baptism.
They lay upon their side
curled, eternal rest now theirs,
huddled around Christ
a premature martyrdom.
The tick of the clock
a reminder
that in the West
They lay forgotten.
The Copts. Again.


(Written: 29.XII.17)


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