Day 937

He’d gone out
to collect cardboard,
cardboard for fuel, so
his family could eat.  Not
long ago, a brother of his
did the same. Came
to the same end:  killed
by a drone.  Gathering cardboard.
Their father is blind:  his sons
were his eyes.  His sons
guided him through his days.
Carried him where he
needed to go.  Held his hands.
Built fires to cook with,
fires for warmth.  Now
this child, who was nine,
is dead.  And his brother,
dead.  And the drones
hover above, seeking
their targets.  A child.
His father’s world.