Lone husbands shed tears at birthday greetings,

Texted by their wives, estranged in the West.

Today’s public face of chilly winter,

The old man shivers for the cameras.

Helpless, like a baby, he tries language,

But no one cares. The caravan has moved on

To the banter of fighters in the East,

Joshing weakly as they scoop up bodies.

Life stirs somehow beneath a bombed building,

Screaming silently above the midday din,

And saved with the pomp of state occasions.

This is the way our country lives for now:

Through daily scraps of horror, hope or shame.

Yes, life goes on. But not here. Not really.