Dust And Chocolate

His chest is wrapped in white gauze

shimmers gray

through dust and smoke,

his bare feet are scratched

running over broken machinery.


No one of his blood

lives to tell him

what to do or where to go

no one who would embrace him

or punish him, hand him a bar of chocolate

or sing him a lullaby at the departure of light.

His torture-stricken smile

shows his bleeding gums

chewing on dry molded bread.

Would he live long enough

in the dust to see the fall of chocolate

from above?


Something wrenches my nerves

when I see him waving

before the camera climbing over corpses

looking at me with a crumbled smile.

Questions are hanging

from red branches of his eyes

and scars of his skin.

He does not recognize the dead

in uniforms, bloody, with screaming eyes

some still moving, whispering their last words

some in his language, some not.


Behind the stream of his black tears

he sharpens his ears

to hear his mother’s call from

among the half dead lying in dust

some of his own color, some not.

Copyright © Fereshteh Sholevar 2014