Each Small Candle

Not the torturer will scare me Nor the body's final fall Nor the barrels of death's rifles Nor the shadows on the wall Nor the night when to the ground The last dim star of pain, is held But the blind indifference Of a merciless unfeeling world Lying in the burnt out shell Of some Albanian farm An old Babushka Holds a crying baby in her arms A soldier from the other side A man of heart and pride Breaks ranks, lays down his rifle And kneels by her side He binds her wounds He gives her food And calms the crying child She gives him absolution then Across the great divide He picks his way back through the broken China of her life And there at the kerb The samaritan Serb turns.. Turns and waves.. goodbye And each small candle Lights a corner of the dark...