Day 943

A choir of martyrs
visits you in your sleep.
Your father, your uncles.
Your eldest brother.  His friend.
Your teacher.  The families
in the building across the street.
The orange cat your grandmother loved.
A professor you wanted to study with.
The woman who worked
at the bakery.  The baker.  The grocer.
The ten-year-old boy out looking
for firewood.  Climbing the rubble.
The choir of martyrs stands
by your side. Is there
something they
want from you? Some
are still bleeding.  Shrouded.
Silent, mostly;
though sometimes you hear
a low moaning
that seems to permeate
the walls
of your tent: A sigh.  A word
here and there.  A name.