Cats crouch in corners,

or follow, weaving

round your legs in terror when

you duck across the street….

Bombs, rockets pound your walls,

shatter dreams to cinders, turn all 

to dust: bloodless, without hope.

When shells burst, 

Kafr Nabl shakes:

streets are streaked with tabbies, 

the once creamy-coated,

with ginger toms & tiger stripes,

cadaverous silver cats famished,

tarnished in the smut of war.

At night cats’ eyes blink green

as shock-waves of artillery 

& mewling, yowling cries

drench sudden air.

Careless death descends 

in fiery embers,

incandescent shrapnel. War slams 

life’s voices shut. Cats have not

asked for conflict, or for pity.

But you will feed them milk, noodles, lentils—

whatever you can scavenge, prowling,

running on all fours between basements,

now a cat yourself, your shadow streaked

as theirs: your soul furred with suffering.

Your breastbone shifts in pity. 

In this barrage-wrecked town,

your arms will cradle them against 

the crump & leap of your own heart.

Purring, they will comfort you…

although their needle teeth, their claws

are as much a match for missiles

as your broken fingernails.