by Steven Croft
In twilight we stare into our deaths
like we are the coming darkness
Our harrowed babies cry
but we dare not sing to them
The flour is gone in days
even tea is scarce
Our colorful dresses long hidden
or already burned for warmth
A bird calls a melody from a snowy tree
like joy trapped by the coming darkness
Warlords with stern faces walk the streets
with whips, rifles,
Whip-march a head-bent man with hands
bound behind by thick layers of rope
They tell us we have now what the hands
of the people have earned
And there is nowhere else to go, just
a cold valley, hill passes snowed for winter
If allowed to sing, we would moan a dirge
now even the night-bird is quiet
Nowhere is even a seed of relief
markets, kiosks, shops, silent and empty
They say our sins haunt us now—
girls wanting work and education
In the cold schools boys recite the Quran
Ameen
But how many times, O Knower of the Unseen,
until all our sins are erased
In our dreams of spring we see green trees
goat's milk and markets full of vegetables
In our dreams of spring we dance and sing
in our colorful dresses
Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. He is the author of New World Poems (Alien Buddha Press, 2020). His poems have appeared in Willawaw Journal, San Pedro River Review, The New Verse News, North of Oxford, Anti-Heroin Chic, Soul-Lit, and other places, and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
