Walls have collapsed in the buildings of sorrow.
Rubble and dust fill the homes of sorrow.
Bomb shelters shielding old women and children—
no match for weapons wielding sorrow.
Cars, bullet-ridden, leak bodies and gas
along the winding highway of sorrow.
Baby shoes, old clothes, and empty bottles
litter the dry riverbed of sorrow.
No help for the injured, no bandages
to bind wounds in the hospital of sorrow.
Less and less food, even less water—
people hold cups that hold only sorrow.
What can I do? Harsh winds blow through
the open-air mausoleum of sorrow.
San Diego Poetry Annual, 2025-26