Two 6 years old Syrian girls

Are we alive or dead?

the dust in your throat

tells me that you are alive

your bleeding lips, your stare,

your hand  holding on to mine,

the air so close to your cheeks

unburied from the rubble

tell me that you are alive

the  broken city

 you no longer question,

 your feet stumbling,

now untwisted after the rescue ,

 your pulse,

 your heart barely beating,

 your commotion,

what you don’t know: the callous fear,

the cowardly reality of  our  world

tell me that you're alive.

the dead left behind, the school:

books, corpses, sweets, uniforms

teachers, desks heavily loaded

with destruction only destruction

tell me that you are  alive.

the stories you lost, your dead friends ,

your games so long over,

and the forever gone smile

tell me that you're alive.

and now that you know

you let  go of my hand,

you cover your face

and tears and sobs

have dimmed your sight.

Is this to be alive?