He waits till three to go to sleep,
With heavy lids and aching limb.
He waits and thinks and starts to weep,
Recalling all that’s been.
His father badly beaten, his mother on the floor,
Keening and beseeching them to
Let her young son go.
He waits till three and waits some more,
Awaits the shock of the knock on the door;
Heralding a scene of a mad war crime,
A crime, in truth, which all ignore.
Snatched and flung in hell and beyond,
His innocence shafted, his childhood gone.
He waits till three to go to sleep,
And while he waits, his freedom’s gone.
Sandra Watfa © 2017
