Home...

It was a typical

day. The same people

taking their daily walks and the

same children playing. Their smiles

precious, but unfortunately temporary.

A single plane hovered over and later a

second. No one gave them much thought

but the children who looked up in awe and

fascination. The planes gave… two objects.

Twisted gifts. One— later two— generously

given from a few "Fat Men" to many "Little

Boys"— a countless number they had

deemed deserved it... And they were

the first. The children noticed and

they pointed up as the “gifts” fell

to the earth. Unsuspecting,

their smiles remained.

Three. Two. One.

A blinding light

A still silence...

The world stopped.

Or at least their world did.

Their clocks stopped ticking and

individual names became mere

numbers that some took pride in.

After all, "the war was won, those

dead didn’t matter!" They jeered

though the shadows still remained

That notion is and always will be

wrong

 

There remains far more than that. Their memory remains.

Just like the living, the dead speak but with a disguised tongue.

Everyone has their own story to tell, and their voice will remain

heard but only through what we say, think, do, and write on

their behalf.

 

History has taught me that suns in the days of the innocent may

unfortunately set far too early.

 

Poetry has taught me that even though their suns set early,

their days are far more treasured.