Day 729

Whose child is that, lying
under the rubble?  The woman
who’s half-blind, her sight
destroyed by shrapnel?  The man
with the prosthetic leg,
who, before the genocide,
played soccer?  Is that
his father?  Whose child
is that, still (incredibly)
breathing, voice
barely audible, a cry
that could be the cry
of any child trapped,
injured, terrified?  Who
is still able to dig
through the fallen
concrete, collapsed
ceilings, severed
lives, to find him?  To free
his crushed body before blood
spills from every orifice?
Who will release
his fingers? His broken feet?
His small ribs, compressed
beneath the weight
of everything he has ever known?