The Lute Player

A gentle soul,

He plays his lute

In dark corners of cafes.

Yesterday, his brother

Died in gunfire,

Not a soldier, just a family man,

A carpenter, the brother

Of the lute player.
Last week, he helped a mother

Sift through ashes

For the burned remnants

Of her child.

It was too difficult to tell

One charred corpse from another.

A gentle soul,

This Iraqi lute player,

Who sits in dark cafe corners.

Someday, he says, he'll have a school

And teach others to play the lute.

And the whole country will rise

And make beautiful music.