Iraq
by Mary Oliver

I want to sing a song
for a body I saw
crumpled
and without a name

but clearly someone young
who had not yet lived hsi life
and never would.
How shall I do this?

What kind of song
would serve such a purpose?
This poem may never end,
for what answer does it have

for anyone
in this distant,
comfortable country,
simply looking on?

Clearly
he had a weapon in his hands.
I think
he could have been no more than twenty.

I think, whoever he was,
of whatever country,
he might have been my brother,
were the world different.

I think
he would not have been lying there
were the world different.
I think

if I had known him,
on his birthday,
I would have made for him
a great celebration.