A child

A heart beat

I hear

The pulse

It folded fingers

It

The child

Small

From head to toe

A fist

For him: would he like a burial place?

A question questioned would be

While the thought wondered

The spaces spacious space

A would

Not small

A women crying above

Why he was born?

An unbearable thirst

Burns

God, will you take him back, too

It is small....it would not...

A sigh

From the small chest

A request

From the eyes flashes

To be by the bed’s

Side while the death

Sings last songs

Above heads.

Blonde hair

A child

As if asleep

Death

Is it real

I wonder

Heartbeat

A pulse

I don’t hear

In pain of pain

A scream screamed

The last from the small lips

Daddy... Watch out, a grenade!