A tiny boy races through a village, with
fragile arms carrying books, papers,
maybe a pencil or two. He's hugging
the world with bright eyes, while
stumbling through the morning light,
traveling aimlessly in a field of
ash.
Never looking down at animals'
hopeless faces, flesh blown away
by the bombs of freedom, the
scorching heat smearing morality,
changing what should be,
what shouldn't be.
But here he is still, his shadow in the
haunts from forgotten tears
no older than I.