“Just like sparrows,
You'll never see one dead.
Must be millions of them,
but you'll hardly ever see one dead.”
What happens to them?
“They get over it.”
Over what?
“Over being there.”

They simply lie with stale fear
reaking from their skins,
for death cannot heal them.

Slowly, they let go of
each others fingers
and sink, numb,
into that thick silence.
They drown there.

A thousand soffacating creatures,
choking in a bombed-out town.

All the candles in their churches are out,
and death is a bone that stammers.

And suddenly,
they are guiltier than hell.
History counts every smudging thumbprint.