Their Waiting

On my screen,
a palm held light,
I am led into Aleppo,
to a hospital,
where the staff stand,
waiting for the rushed
aftermath,
on foot or trolley,
the cradled,
the carried,
the blasted,
the burnt,
the broken,
now entering
this mending place,
where bloodied bodies
are assessed;
here a bandaged baby
delivers its screams,
as loud as
the now-bereaved;
torches are
a switched solution
with the power cuts,
in this hospital,
which provides
a temporary fix
of things.

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