Day 535

The games will be played
that you couldn’t play, littlest
sister, shot in the back
by a sniper’s bullet.  The songs
will be sung that you
couldn’t sing, the dances
danced; the words
you were only beginning
to speak will be spoken,
now, by others.  Littlest sister,
with hands so small
they couldn’t hold
a shovel, a kettle, a pot.
Littlest sister, who wanted to learn
everything we knew:  we
will lay your tiny body
in the earth, cover it
with flowers and debris, 
with shards of bone, of
the city; with the smell
of jasmine and rot.  With everything
you knew, everything you
can take away from this life.
Our resolve, our resistance,
will be for you.  And at moments
we’ll be surprised by a slender weight
that stops for a moment
on our shoulders:
as though a butterfly
had landed there, or a small bird.