Poem April 15, 2002 ISSUE

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

By Warren Bolon

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.

Send a comment to the editors

We'd love to hear from you!

Easily submit your testimonies, articles, and poems online.

Submit

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

We'd love to hear from you!

Not a subscriber?