In Pristina, a green vase sings from a table left standing

A white chaliced tulip, orange-crowned daffodils butter and honeycupped, the perfume of narcissuspetal fanned, these are vowels in God's own language. In such soundslove tenders itself to nearly a millionrefugees, the children, and echoes backamong the rocks and camouflage as a voice asking, What have you done?A lone cellist's bow gently drawnon and over a world's heart still singsa song with no clash, no consonants.

Amid rubble flowers want to bloom.It rains. Gardens obey and grow.

We'd love to hear from you!

Easily submit your testimonies, articles, and poems online.