The children hop and eat pigeons,
dancing moonlit in their funeral linen.
The Little Drummer Boy huddles in pale
ash mortar, handstanding toward a lost star
his Way gone, choral reeds burning stink,
rotting heaven’s rumor of gold and mink.
A flame spree of screams ring, burnt
tongues, their small feet storming
our amputee grounds,
a single mower left shredding the hobby horses.
In ash colonies drudgery, suicide brick,
they scatter, each name blurs rented for pain;
“Where are we? Where have they gone?”
comes the piteous, collective moan.
Look not toward me, child.
Or better, stay to hear my long, agonized groan.