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Feb 2017
A tiny boy races through a village, with
fragile arms carrying books, papers,ย 
maybe a pencil or two. He's hugging
the world with bright eyes, while
stumbling through the morning light,
traveling aimlessly in a field ofย 

ash.

Never looking down at animals'
hopeless faces, flesh blown awayย 
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 fromย forgotten tears

no older than I.
Robin Goodfellow
Written by
Robin Goodfellow
290
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