A grey face of stone emerges from the rubble.
Hands reaching, shovels digging.
A toll of nine hundred, a thousand.
It rises with the day,
but the sun casts no shadow through the dusty haze.
The world watches and wonders why,
40 percent children but no place to hide.
Images so real compel us to give,
to find a way to make it all okay.
Better.
Lessen the pain.
A blow to the landmarks of pride and faith,
brought to the ground by nature’s innocent grace.
No person to blame, no religion to hate.
Just one of many precarious movements
beneath our goaded feet.
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Take me to the trees.