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
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
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.