Each Small Candle

Not the torturer will scare me

Nor the body's final fall

Nor the barrels of death's rifles

Nor the shadows on the wall

Nor the night when to the ground

The last dim star of pain, is held

But the blind indifference

Of a merciless unfeeling world

Lying in the burnt out shell

Of some Albanian farm

An old Babushka

Holds a crying baby in her arms

A soldier from the other side

A man of heart and pride

Breaks ranks, lays down his rifle

And kneels by her side

He binds her wounds

He gives her food

And calms the crying child

She gives him absolution then

Across the great divide

He picks his way back through the broken

China of her life

And there at the kerb

The samaritan Serb turns..

Turns and waves.. goodbye

And each small candle

Lights a corner of the dark...