For the dying children in Syria and everywhere

The children cried: ‘Mummy!’
‘I have been good!’
‘Why is it dark! Dark!’

You can see them
going down
you can see the marks
of small feet here and there
going down

Their pockets full
of string and pebbles
and little horses made of wire

The great plain closed
like a geometric figure
one tree of black smoke
vertical
a dead tree
starless its crown

Tadeusz Rózewicz
Massacre of the innocents

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