A still small voice, the crumbling earth lies silent - a poem after a devastating earthquake.
A still small voice, the crumbling earth lies silent,
a baby suckled at her mother’s breast,
feels flesh grow cool as she lies quietly dying,
no comfort now, no warmth, no earthly rest.
And where is God amid this dust, these ashes?
Is this God’s plan, this random, rancid death?
Where is the blessing in these crumbling buildings
where silent bodies drew a final breath?
The dust, a pall, obscures the teasing sunrise.
See, dawn’s temptation to arise, to wake.
But this dishonest call is, empty, hollow
to any who’ve survived this this night, this quake.
What now? The still, small voice still quietly questions:
there is no consolation for this pain,
but mid the dust and rubble of this carnage,
humanity might rise in hope again.
©Andrew Pratt 7/2/2023
The day after the earthquakes in Turkey, Syria and the surrounding regions.
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