INTRODUCTION
War is a painful thing; that it is a thing makes it even worse, because it proves that it is man-made. In every part of the world, wars are being fought; to protect evil, to save lives, to hold on to resources, to propagate faith, to survive. Wars are being fought and people are dying; mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, children are dying. It is not bullets or bomb that kill them but human beings like them.
The Boko Haram and in recent times, the Fulani herdsmen have been a thorn on the side of the Nigerian military for some years now. They have wounded the psyche of the country and left many war widows behind. This is but a sample of what can be found in different parts of the world where conventional and unconventional warfare is ongoing. These women are rarely seen and rarely mentioned but are they not fighting too?
The poem below is dedicated to these women, who never get medals, mentions or gun salutes for their fortitude, for their resilience, for the pain they have to bear, the fear they have to hold at bay and the sacrifices they have to make for their husband's, their son's sake.
The poem first appeared in another form as my entry for @dobartim Steemit Stars competition. Enjoy
EMPTY STARS
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Cold stars stare at the sky,
Washing the moon with tiny lights,
Twinkling at passing cars and kissing teens
Hiding under an old, forgotten tree
Standing guard at the cemetery.
Gravestones whisper names
Of heroes that refused to die
Their death in your head, in your heart,
Searching for what is left of memory;
A medal, a medallion, an accordion
Hanging from rusty dog tags and faded fatigues.
Fingers brushing pearls of pain
To feed the concrete soil to grow
A little boy with broken heart
And distant mother's love seeking
The window sill for a memory
That was lost when guns poked holes
Between ribs and patriotic zeal.
Rains come between the stars and the stones,
Between the lips of lover's kisses,
Between memory and the misty present
And you turn to the weathered woman
You have become and you ask her;
Is this all that is left?
This creaking house mourning silence,
This damp bed whimpering tears,
This empty picture telling a lie,
This broken boy pressing khaki pants,
Seeking to find a man
Among bullet torn soil and bleeding bodies?
Is this all that is left?
Yet you will watch the bus
Drink the dregs of you off the cup
You once happily called life,
You will patter all over old photos
With your worn hands, your weary heart,
And your empty eyes.
When the dreaded call comes again
Like it did before,
The cold star will stare at the sky,
The gravestones will welcome another,
Youths will kiss under any tree
And gun salutes will fill birds with flight.
But when you fade away
Like the last frost of the fleeing winter,
The gravestones will turn away,
Guns will salute the gleaming shine of oil
And paper flowers will be your medal.