To My Unborn Child

When Syrian beds are not left to grow cold,

Not flung into pieces, dusty and old,

When children that lay there sleep without fear,

And beds are cosy, and loved ones are near,

When rubble rises,

And water runs clear

Only then, my love,

Will I summon you here.

When Afghan kitchens are not full of holes,

And kettles and pots don’t dream of lost souls,

When children that ate there laugh in the sun,

And run flying kites when working is done,

When rubble rises,

And water runs clear

Only then, my love,

Will I summon you here.

When men in the West no longer fly drones,

Killing remotely, not leaving their homes,

When their love for their children one day is enough,

And the children of others are worthy of love,

When rubble rises,

And water runs clear

Only then, my love,

Will I summon you here.

Hilary Cremin