Day 897

The bodies lie in the street
next to the wreckage of a car
that has been struck by a missile.
Months into what they’ve
called a ceasefire, they fired.
Who were they, who died
on their way to something else:
a shop, a visit with family,
a simple walk to enjoy the sun?
Who loved them?  Who
raised them? Who was waiting
for them to come home?
Who depended on them
to tend a grandmother,
clean a wound, cook
a meal, rock a child
to sleep?  Whose hands
touched them last?  Whose
voice spoke the last words
they heard?  Did they know
they were dying when their legs
collapsed under them?  When
the sky darkened, grew black?
What were their last
thoughts, to whom
did they silently say
goodbye?