Day 195

Eleven children killed in a playground.
They had been living in tents, they were hungry, 
bored.  Their parents sent them to the playground
to play.  I would have done the same.
They were still alive, they had to live.
The playground was still there.
They played, ran, shouted.  Play does not live far
under the skin of children; give it space,
it comes to the surface.  Sunny
April day.  A warmth in the air.  Eleven children.
Some of them siblings.  Parents who lost two. More.
Count their bodies.  Their colorful t-shirts
with words on them, stained with blood.