My grandson sleeps; a fitful, feverish state with crimson cheeks;
Beyond the place where twilight’s found; where Lethe’s course is wound:
Pure innocence, the danger seeps; adrift on a raft of cotton sheets.
In his field of dreams I sponge his back, and await his febrile course to tack;
While far-away Aleppo comes awake; barrel bombs and gas the children break:
Pure innocence, the danger reaps; laid out on a raft of cotton sheets.