Lament for the Children

 Why, O God?  What about the children?

Sweet child in a red shirt, blue shorts, brown sandals lovingly fastened by his mother,

(dark hair carefully combed by the waves)

lies in lapping water on an ocean shore far from home.

Dust and ash-caked face, staring vacant eyes, hands tightly clasped,

a five-year old perches on an orange chair in an ambulance, alone.

Two infants, months old, clad only in shirts and diapers,

are cradled in each arm of a determined young man

 running furiously through gray rubble – to safety?

Why, O God? What about the children?

My heart aches at the desperate images on the screen.

Tears fall as their stories peal from the radio, like tolling bells.

At night, fists clenched,

I sob into my soft pillow.

Why God! What about the children!

Sitting on my balcony, I hear a little boy giggling with his grandpa,

bright red hair glinting in the sun as he runs in circles,

 in a yellow tee-shirt, brown shorts, and sandals lovingly fastened by his mother.


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