and mingling with the dust
a solid choking mass that coats with
dirty grey the shapes that lie so still.
broken only by a tearful moan,
uneasy on the waiting ears
of those who stand or sit or sprawl
in utter disbelief.
of steel shod boots on slabs of stone,
the sharp staccato crunch of broken glass
comes muted through the murky gloom.
that calls and calls,
and calls, again
in mortal agony for help,
so slowly dims and fades.
like a cloak descends, at odds
with all that went before.
The strange amorphous shape
that lies at angles strange to watching eyes
still moves amidst a growing pool
of blood so inky black and viscous
‘neath the leprous glare
of lights that flicker then go dim.
White shards lie pointing, through the ooze
louder than the scream of agony
that’s forced from throats made sore
by breathing in the acrid fumes of hate.
Too soon the murk is pushed aside
in tattered veils that drift away
to leave a vision terrible to see.
Amidst the mounds of rubble piled so high
and lying midst the tattered remnants
of a place that they called home
lie still, the broken forms of those
who once had worked,
who once had played,
had lived and loved,
had been to school and learned
that anger, hate and fear have their reward
in someone else’s tears.