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’
resounding
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.

 

SJMC+
(Written: 29.XII.17)

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