(File photo)
From my mother’s hands, I fell into the jaws of this beast
The gunpowder and smoke, a contrast to everything I knew that was sweet
The bodies lay still, as if they were asleep; from this sleep, they shall never wake up The deafening sound of silence after the airstrike is done is enough to make the most peaceful go mad. The smoke rushes in and mixes with the rusty smell of blood; those who were too slow shall know that smell all too well. In the small ditch, I huddle down like a hare digging down below the ground. I feel the slippery, dark red river from the slaughtered, and the taste of vomit fills my throat.
How long will this go on? How much longer will I live? I may go home, but my mind remains here. If I return, the presence of the enemies I shall always fear.
Who will hold me then when my mind is gone? Who says I shall even make it that far? The crow picks the dead clean, and whispers to me “nevermore”. In the jaws of this beast, I cry at night, not too loud so I may avoid the fight. My hands are stained with blood, and I shall never go home, back into my mother’s hands. When I wake, I wake shaking, whispering, silently, for now I know, my innocence is nevermore.
