Her Doll, The Clown

A new day dawning, air raids ceasing, peace over the land at last,
Towering ruins in various shapes on battered ground their shadows cast,
Bizarre, like surrealistic works of artists from another time,
Whose minds in keen, advancing quest the ladder to their goals did climb. Manifestation of their visions, created not by their own hands,
But the powerful decisions of leading men in other lands.
Dreadful destruction on the ground, a wail of sorrow in the air,
Enormous craters all around, like gaping wounds in need of
A whimpering sound, an echo faint, a sudden movement in the rubble,
Sobbing, a little girl emerges, uttering words in mindless babble.
through the debris in searching mode she stumbles with trembling limbs,
Climbing about in frantic haste, hoping to catch a glimpse. Of that so dearly beloved face, where has her mother gone?
Where is her room, where are her toys, why is she all alone?
Innocent victim of it's time, caught in the grinding mills of war,
Innocence spoiled, without a chance, tainted forevermore. Then with a sigh of great relief the anxious child stoops down,
Amidst the rummage it has found its favorite doll, the clown.
With his perpetual, radiant smile, displaying sweet repose,
He comforteth the little girl, who kisses his bright red nose!

by Margarete A. Jordan

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