Made In Syria

Her honey colored hair dance in the wind,

As she pushes against the storm beating her down.

The scorching sand burns her little feet,

But there are more miles to cover

Before she can stop to rest.

Her doll’s left arm is missing,

Lost while going under the barbed fence.

A smudge of dirt, makes her look almost cute,

As her childlike face gives a dead look to her captors.

A foreign fear grips her heart,

As she is torn away from her mother’s bosom.

The eerie silence is darker than the noise,

That shook her little world in a puff of fire and smoke.

Sold to be a woman,

The doll lies forgotten in a pile of broken junk.

Nine year old girl,

From a forsaken land,

Spreads her legs,

While closing the doors to her mind.

Broken records play like a throat raw from screaming.

Little girl lost,

A woman crosses the ocean to safety,

With a maimed doll her only possession.

Shore nowhere in sight,

Priceless pennies don’t buy freedom,

Released into the rough arms of the sea,

The child from nowhere sinks into statistics,

Floating away, decaying, food for the fish,

Nothing more nothing less.

Only the plastic of the doll remains

And in a corner, the fading label says,

“Made in Syria”

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