A child hides under the metal framed bed,
rockets crash like cymbals, fireworks of a death parade.
His hands cannot keep fear from filtering through his ears.
He holds his baby sister. Their parents are out.
Another blast, he feels the world falling,
ancient cities crumbling under oppression.
Freedom is a pile of dirt, blood, and flesh.
Orange glows through the cracked glass,
air holding its acrid smell.
She whimpers, opening her lips, a rose.
He wets his shirt, rolls it, offering,
she sucks in makeshift comfort.