the village was demolished when they arrived.
bits of flesh and clothing hung from what little was left
of the poor excuses for shelter.
Shards of wood and dried mud lay in scattered array
where the walls had crumbled from the blast.
there was the sound of nothing.
carrion birds were already forming circles in the sky
as the harsh winds and brilliant sun
dried the air into arid waste.
there was no chance of survival as the raid and subsequent bomb caught the quiet people completely unawares.
killed only for where their motley group of mud
shacks happened to be,
they were a peaceful group
much more interested in the weather and thickness
of the goat’s hair that season.
the slaughter came at a time of political unrest, yet an unrest that hadn’t touched this village and meant nothing to them.
nothing, until now.
now there were none left. no bodies to mourn for,
for there were no mourners.
harsh reality of lost innocents
harsh reality of lost innocence.