I was five hours through my trip of eight
When I saw through bug guts light tearing cloud
I was thinking about clips sent my way
Of her play with the offspring of her own

Laughing without regard for somber weight
Which hung on us like a funeral shroud
Her spirit was ready were it the day
She was prepared if then she would have flown

But how it closed with a coffin lid’s freight
What tears under such sorrow we allowed
In front of his daughter dying he lay
Soon enough I’d have his pictures alone

In the light I saw insects smashed to death
“Three hours left” I said under my breath