Day 548

A boy of eight or nine
is standing outside a school
where dozens of people are taking shelter.
More.  No place else to go.
Suddenly, an explosion.  The school is in flames.
The night is lit orange, the bomber planes
are still crossing the sky, having done 
what they came to do.  The boy stands,
unable to move.  He feels the heat,
hears the screams, sees people
beginning to pour out, running,
carrying children.  A man 
runs past him, two wailing children
in his arms.  He looks
at the boy, and the boy immediately
understands.  He holds out
his arms, takes the smaller child,
starts running with the father.  Where
are they going?  What will they find?
The boy looks, as he runs, into the eyes
of the child he is holding. Feels, 
in that moment, the child’s pain.
The father’s horror. Suddenly
his eight or nine years
have become a lifetime.  Whatever
boyhood was in him
is gone.  He knows 
only that he must keep running,
keep holding on tight
to this child. And he runs.  Runs.