The ink was wet upon the page, a promise in the morning light.


Then thunder tore the ceiling down and swallowed every burning light.


We mapped the stars of ancient kings and sang of rivers running deep,


But now the dust is all we breathe, a shroud to veil the turning light.


“Collateral,” the parrot voices say, from rooms across a safe and distant sea,


As if a child’s heartbeat ends by switching off a yearning light.


My sister’s ribbon, once so red, is buried under broken stone;


I search the rubble for her hand, or just a spark of returning light.


The blackboard holds a half-drawn sum, a question left without a soul,


A ghost of lessons we had learned before they quenched the learning light.


They aimed for shadows in the hall but hit the laughter in our throats;


How heavy is the silence now that follows every spurning light?


The girl who dreamed of being wise is lost within the rising smoke;


The world is cold and grey and still, without her small and discerning light.