Day 988

In a tent
that barely shields them
from anything — not
sudden rain, not summer heat,
not drones, not airstrikes —
a man is teaching a song
to children. He stands
while they sit, cross-legged,
eyes riveted on him
and his guitar.
Each one in this tent
is sitting behind a pillar
of losses: mothers, fathers,
siblings, friends. Houses,
schools, limbs. Yet
their voices are strong,
ring out as they learn
the song, line by line.
Ring out over the sounds
of everything
bent on destroying them.
Ring out, defying hunger,
pain, hopelessness. Ring out
as though the dead
who are crowding this tent
could hear them. Could even
begin swaying their ghost-bodies
in something like a dance. See!
They are moving the tent itself
in the morning air.