In the Ruins

A man sits on the rubble—

not just in the rubble, but on the pileSyria

of what  remains. No people

in the bombed-out houses.

No dogs. No birds. Just ragged hunks

of concrete and loss. And on his perch

he is playing an instrument constructed

of what is left—an olive oil can, a broom handle,

a bowed stick and strings. It sounds

exactly as it is supposed to sound.

The instrument cries, but the man sings.

Because sometimes loss is deeper than tears.

Because sometimes grief is resistance.

Because, somewhere down the very long road,

music is stronger than bombs.

 

by Lynn Ungar  11-16-15

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