Bucha

Bloody teardrops, melting snow,

first reports filled with woe.

And though we saw it all before,

now there comes another war.

A four-year-old not full of dread,

that four-year-old is simply dead.

The victims lie upon the street,

no mercy left and no retreat.

In a yard, a makeshift grave,

proof that evil is not brave.

Little houses in a row,

blown away, to and fro.

A family car with bullet holes,

the occupants, heavenly souls.

Trenches tell a grisly tale,

listen to the mourner wail.

Can we pause to lend a hand,

for people of that stricken land?

Or will we cry about the cost,

if as though our treasure’s lost?

LDT Apr 7, ‘22

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