Each Footprint is a Hope

When a child walks barefoot

each footprint is a map of a land.

When children fall in front of bullets

and their bodies are dragged on –

each dragging trail is a hope.

Their eyes show us

the black back of every mirror

the cold grasp of ruins.

Their laughter rings like vacuum

travelling through the bullet holes

in the walls of their houses.

Their footprints leave

a vast desolate ache in their wake

as water forms

inside growing coconuts

by their houses.

The houses – roofless –

look at the sky

the way a quiet shore

looks at the sea

seeking a way to rest.

Today a Missile Struck the Head of Buddha

God – their names echo in spaces

where tanks traverse playgrounds.

The world moves and the hands of clocks move farther apart.

Palms folded over our h

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