Three women walked a curved path.
Dresses dappled in rising light,
Morning shadows vanishing;
A sparsely populated caravan
Advancing through an ancient grove.
Moving, in their gravitational pull,
One eight year old boy.
The women speak of morning things and war,
The boy, anxious, listens.
And years later listens, when seething men
Congregate there, screaming their vile will
Through the stately trees at soldiers
And those now come to join.
And stands to the side,
Unable to speak for himself,
To say his truest heart,
Among those with whom he had grown.
Whose mothers held him
And grandfathers knew his name.