Passion

No hint of greeting meets my eye, 
His face just stares without a glance; 
No tears are shed, he does not cry, 
Lying there, he had no chance. 
 
With concrete dust across his feet, 
And eyes that stare without a frown; 
No cheery smile for me to greet, 
A smear of blood upon his crown. 
 
His shirt is ruffled by blowing sand, 
Upon my knees, I crouch and kneel; 
Eight years of life sees death first hand, 
Who his life would willingly steal? 
 
Where now compassion’s love reveal? 
For human suffering - God’s people appeal. 
 
9 March 2017

And Still His Eyes do not Blink - A Sonnet for Mosul March 2017