That poor innocent little girl was standing isolated in the only patch of color: wild daises; watching, waiting.

She was waiting for liberation, for her precious taken-away freedom to be returned to her.

The bleak and horrid fields of dead, maimed, and mangled bodies of her fellow camp members awaited her as she slowly withered away like the flower she clutched.

Her mother, father, older sister and brother had already joined the ranks of the dead.

She was the only one left to say she survived that awful massacre and genocide.

She was the only one left to stand up for that injustice and inhumane cruelty, but she was tired, oh so very tired, and hurt.

She was liberated and set free, but it was too late.

Only her body was recovered, to be surrounded by buried dead, maimed, and mangled bodies of her fellow camp members, forever marked as Unknown Victim with a single wild and withering daisy resting against her grave.