Day 383

The three year old was in his grandfather’s arms
until a minute before the sniper fired.  His grandfather
put him down on his little chair and death
took him.  Death took his thin, pale face,
his narrow shoulders, his half-smile.  His grandfather
picked him up, carried him, ran frantically
with the child in his arms, bleeding
from his mouth, his nose.  It was clear
he was dead, but his grandfather ran
with him anyway through charred streets,
past piles of concrete, fallen
blown-out houses.   Death took 
the small boy Sami to join the others,
the ones there are not even coffins for,
the ghost-children lining Death’s 
lightless foul-smelling corridors;
Death took Sami away from his grandfather,  
from arms that held him, faces
that looked with tenderness at his
face, from everything he was learning
about being in this world.  Death
stole him, closed everything
in him that was open, that took in
air, laughter, sunlight.  Death disappeared him.
Hours later, through streets just this side of Death,
his grandfather walks, holding nothing.