Day 500/Ceasefire Day 30

The house was always filled
with the voices of children:
little ones shrieking as they chased
each other through the rooms, older ones
talking, arguing, kicking a ball
in the courtyard, their shouts
coming in through the open window.
Now there’s no window.  No house.
Now there are voices missing.
Now the little ones still alive
are older, subdued.  Now one
of the older girls stands
on a slab of concrete in the rain,
and when she's told to come
inside the tent they’ve pitched
over the rubble, she looks up,
looks away, can barely answer,
can barely string a few words
together.  She who loved to sing
doesn’t sing anymore.  She
who used to be told be quiet,
turn out the light, stop
keeping your sisters awake,
doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want
to think of her sisters no
longer there:  the older one
with her tangled hair.  The younger one,
whose hand she held every night
as they fell asleep.