The horrific brilliance of the many tattered yellow stars,
a lit sky on a black night.
Tired old men with slow steps
stare with mournful eyes;
too many years
to shed a tear.
black clouds of smoke
appear after the gun,
fogging our view of the
grotesque reality.
The prime goal is to flee,
seek shelter and
watch from afar the
scene unfolding.
No mercy is provided
for the weak,
the frail,
the ones who almost made it.
Secluded behind
clouded glass
reveals that
death has paved our streets.
Sorrow hangs in the air
like old perfume,
squeezing our hearts and
taking our breath.
Then a flurry of white,
a soaring bird attempting escape.
The crack of the pistol and
it stops mid-flight,
plummeting to it’s mother’s side.
Why spend so much time
on this small winged creature?
Oh but it was not a bird,
it was not a bird,
it was not a bird.