The Market Place
The busy hustle and bustle of the market place
Iraqi vendors selling their goods.
walking briskly I look at the fruits, linen, multicolored pottery.
Stopping from time to time to enjoy the organized chaos.
Oh what a beautiful way to spend the morning.
Pulling on my pant leg, a young boy looks up
“mister, mister, you buy this pot, yes?” he says in broken English
gazing down I can’t help but smile at his innocent face
a face so young and full of life, forced to survive in a mixed up world.
Handing him two dinar I quickly take the pot and continue my walk.
Looking left then right , my body zigs and zags
trying to cross the street busy with cars, carts and bikes.
Horns beeping, bells ringing, whistles blowing
people walking, running from here to there
so busy and full of life is the town
Suddenly my body is blown forward with a wrenching push as a car explodes
buildings shaking, trembling, dust filling the air.
The blasting of horns, sirens, bells
curdling screams echoing in the darkened sky
a street now full of debris and confusion.
Standing, my eyes burning, ears ringing, I look back.
The market place once filled with life now covered with injured and dead.
Sounds of hundreds crying, wailing, calling for friends and family.
Bodies mangled, burned, discolored, covered in blood.
A once peaceful market now destroyed by mans disregard for life.
My fingers clawing through piles of bricks and glass
reaching for a small hand protruding from the rubble.
Gasping at the site of a familiar face.
A face once so young and innocent now charred and lifeless.
“mister, mister, you buy this pot, yes?" to be spoken no more.
Headlines read “At least 47 killed in continuing violence”
my mind remembering only one small boy.
Once smiling and gay, now just a statistic in a grave.
A child with no name to remember
still, I will cry for him tonight