She was just a little girl with tousled dark brown locks.
Life had not been kind to her, not kind to her at all.
Her parents both killed in the war; the little one was in shock.
They placed her in our orphanage; there was no next of kin to call.

The little girl was quiet and seldom ever smiled.
She would often wake up screaming from the horrors that she saw.
She would not play with the others; Aloofness was her style.
Her gaze was like a veteran who had seen enough of war.

One day I found her drawing with a little piece of chalk.
She drew a picture of her mother on the floor beside her bed.
I observed her from the shadows; there was no need to talk
As she curled up like a fetus and slept on the floor instead.

It was just a crude chalk drawing; no masterpiece of art
But it gave the poor child comfort as she lay there in the dark
There in the safety of the womb beneath her mother’s heart,
Was a refuge from a reality that was painful cruel and stark.