Dirge For Darfur Poem by Mary Naylor
Dirge For Darfur
The wind,
Strums the strings,
Of the trees,
Tortured, distorted harps,
Their notes float gently into the mute night.
No sound, no sound...
No children's gentle breathings,
No tender lovers' murmurings,
No men and women talking, laughing...
Only the bowed trees
As the invisible Harpist
Plucks the dark, bent branches,
The notes sob in the blackness,
And tremble in the silence,
Their moans echo in the shivering stars.
Wind cupped, weeping, bitter
Notes, that ask, why does evil stand tall,
Why do the good lay fallen...
What a painfully observed, eloquently penned rant against a terrible war. Superb use of the sounds of nature as a metaphor for the horror and anguish you feel. No reader could but be moved by your words. love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Absolutely beautiful. Even the trees weep for Darfur.Who could read this and remain untouched? Extraordinary.Mary. Always your Friend, Sandra
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/25/2024 4:23:27 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Mary, this is excellently beautiful! I am glad you have made comment on my poem.You write well, and this is a marvelous piece of your, the flow of words are gently beautiful.Thanks for sharing this! Love, Meggie