In Syria a child survives a life akin to dying
(I rummage through my stuff as I complain today is Sunday).
In Syria a mother cries, her tears akin to fire
(My life’s alright, my salad’s made for lunch at work on Monday).
In Syria a family’s running – steps akin to heartbeats.
(My weight is up, I’m so run down, I’ll love my figure someday).
In Syria a baby’s born, his cries akin to screaming.
(I’ll dream tonight: Art Deco fans and 1930’s Sunrays).
In Syria a baby dies, her death akin to freedom.
(I’m off to sunny climes; shall text when ‘plane lands on the runway).

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