Kofi Annan stepped into blood on streets,
slipped and slithered between army and rookie
fighters. He held his head high inside a secure
circle of nations shooting spitballs across crushed
bones, empty i.v. lines, children’s bodies in linen,
all paraded on TV screens in spotless offices
where men rested, in fresh shirts, on soft chairs,
and moved chess pieces, snacked on fresh fruit.
But Kofi Annan did not rest, he flew to Moscow,
to Damascus, courted the Arab League, NATO,
sent in a team of blue helmeted observers, talked
nonstop with suits, heads in sand, minds blocked.
He gave his all as he passed by bronzed thrones,
silver dress swords, but only he was worthy of gold.
© Lavinia Kumar
Syria crisis: Annan's exit marks end of diplomatic track
Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, in the US and UK. She writes a blog for her brother’s seniorsmagazine.org, based in Portsmouth, NH.
