I do not feel your grief and your tears are not mine,
nor is your country.
But I bleed and I bruise, even as you are torn apart.
And I love and I lose, even as you die naked in your streets.
And I hope for more even as you lose all that you once had.
We are both men — flesh and blood, though you more than I,
And we both live, though you more than I.
And we both hope, though you simpler, though you greater.
And we both die, though you sooner, though you never.
My struggles are firecrackers and I jump to hear them and I bitch and i call my senator to pass a law to outlaw firecrackers.
But yours - yours are the coordinated missile strikes of men you have never met
—and all you can do is hope—
hope that a picture of your body
—you and your brother’s(whom you loved so dearly)—
will touch a calloused heart.
And maybe—maybe—you will have changed the world.
But you will unquestionably have lived a better life than I—a child who jumps at firecrackers.