In the land where olive trees no longer sigh,
Mothers without children dream of better times.
Their arms, empty, ache with longing and unfulfilled futures.Hearts stitched with sorrows thread.
The lullabies they can no longer sing,
Echo in the wind.
For the children lost, taken,
Bloodied and beat.
But in their hearts are known, cherished, missed.
For always.
Kayt August 24
