In the photograph, he’s at peace,
the tent rippling in the bitter breeze,
that blows the desperate through this town.
A perfect face against a cotton gown.
His parents searched scrubland for hours,
but during war, you don’t find flowers.
In a frozen camp they couldn’t meet his needs.
So, in his coffin, tiny hands grip weeds.
Send them back the distant media roar,
ignoring a parent’s first rule of war.
When an airstrike knocks your house down,
it’s time to run away from that town.
Carry the kids and then only stop
when you find the bombs no longer drop.
And if it’s still a rubbled suburb of war,
there’s little choice, your home’s no more.
All you can do is fall down to your knees
and pray that someone answers your pleas.
For Abdul’s life that will never be lived
there is a final farewell gift to give.
We can offer a plan that shelters and feeds,
which is better than a bouquet of weeds.