“O where are you going” said reader to rider

That country is fatal for your bones

You may hear the wind bombing your ears

And the bullets poisoning grass and graves.

“O do you understand” said fearer to farer

That past will come off on your bloody life

Your guardian angel will vanish in the crowd

Your footprints will discover a sluggish beggar.

“O what was that voice?” said horror to hearer,

Did you hear that sound coming from the desert?

Behind Syria, a storm in a tea cup?

Ashamed the wind echoes never mind.