Blankets

Lying under my wool blanket I listen to news from the east and every time I hear about victims another bomb explodes inside me. When they sing of the heroes, I see them in pits. When they sing of freedom, I see them locked in coffins. Drinking warm coffee with frothed milk, I see children lying under ragged blankets woven of hope, riddled with loss, stained with confusion. Glory to those who are cold, hungry and orphaned. Glory to those who sleep on floors. Glory to those who fear.