Day 1,079

The girl, twelve years old,
drew a sun
on a broken wall.
A wall that once
was the side of a house.
A wall that was shattered
by bombings: more than one.
She drew a sun
with a broken marker
on a broken wall. A jagged wall,
lopsided, leaning. Pieces of concrete
sharp and angled, there
on the ground. A sun.
A sun. Shining. Its rays
reaching out through exploded shards.
A sun to warm
every person who passes.
A sun to light the way
for those digging amid the rubble
to find a hand. A face. A necklace
by which they might
identify a body
long crushed. Long buried.
Long disintegrating
into the soil below.
A sun to make someone smile.
A sun, to say there is this
which can outlast genocide.