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Bombing of Ghouta, Syria<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n After I buried my mother GORAN SIMIC<\/strong>, Bosnia-Sarajevo (1952) <\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" IT CAN START ALL OVER AFTER ALL Bombing of Ghouta, Syria After I buried my mother and ran from the cemetery in a shower of shells, after I gave back my brother\u2019s rifle to the soldiers when they brought him back in twisted canvas, after I saw the flames in my children\u2019s eyes as they […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3563,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_wp_rev_ctl_limit":""},"categories":[14],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.point-editions.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3562"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.point-editions.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.point-editions.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.point-editions.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.point-editions.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3562"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.point-editions.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3562\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3565,"href":"https:\/\/www.point-editions.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3562\/revisions\/3565"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.point-editions.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3563"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.point-editions.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3562"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.point-editions.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3562"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.point-editions.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3562"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nand ran from the cemetery in a shower of shells,
\nafter I gave back my brother\u2019s rifle to the soldiers
\nwhen they brought him back in twisted canvas,
\nafter I saw the flames in my children\u2019s eyes
\nas they fled into the cellar amongst horrifying rats
\nafter I wiped an old woman\u2019s face with a rag
\nfearful that I might recognize her,
\nafter I saw how a hungry dog
\nlicked his bloody wounds on a street corner,
\nafter all of this,
\nI\u2019d like to write poems like news reports
\nthat are so empty and uninteresting that I could forget them
\nthe moment someone asks me on the street:
\nwhy do you write poems like an indifferent news reporter?<\/p>\n
\nFrom: World Poetry, Almanac 2010
\nPublished by Hadaa Sendoo, Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia<\/p>\n