BROKEN ARROWS

BROKEN ARROWS I see her tears, run down from the edges’ sides of her eyes, they slide through her cheeks, they collide on her chin they fly for a while then hit the dusty ground they don’t, I know, but in my ears I do… hear them make an agonic sound I’ve seen a man cry seeing his only son, face down hits the dust, his head bust he remains with nothing, on his hands but bleeding pieces of his broken arrows in my tongue is it said that, blessed is the hand that gives, than the hand that receives but what about that hand, that takes but not only takes but drops and breaks the fragile sacred arrows In the mornings she listens, to joyful signings of the sparrows She takes a look outside her window she glooms in unending sorrow how is he, how is she going to face tomorrow As they remain with nothing on they hands but scars, cuts and bruises from holding bleeding pieces of their broken arrows his and hers fragile arrows, have fallen and broken it has been said and I have spoken “…children are sacred arrows, in the hands of a hero” …these BROKEN ARROWS