Poetry

How Is This Fair?

A villanelle about peace and its obliviousness to the tragedy of war.

How is it fair, that because I was born here and he was born there,

I lay in repose without any qualms and I count the stars, while he counts the bombs?

I lazily ponder evening thunder while he hides in a shelter, his world torn asunder.

I give my child fatherly warnings, while he wonders if his will live to see morning.

While the rising sun kisses my skin, the air raid siren wails and the missiles fall again.

Two years of unfathomable despair, and now he’s all but forgotten, the world no longer seems to care. Tell me, how on earth is this fair?

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