The sky’s teardrops sobbingly cascaded into the moist soil.
The arms of the trees waved rapidly as the rain shimmied down their mint leaves.
The whisper of words could be heard seeping through the whirling wind.
The howling children huddled closely on their dilapidated bunk beds,
Clutching their scarlet teddy bears intimately and ogling the wonders outside their window.
They cried,
“I want to go home. I want to go home.”
But there is no home for them.
There is no safe haven, no sanctuary;
No refuge or shelter.
No parent to run to and embrace intimately.
The children’s identities were stolen,
Their souls kidnapped by the soldiers,
Never to be recovered again.
Each and every one of their personalities plucked off their heads with the career of a razor,
Revealing the naked vulnerability of isolated children.
In a world:
where a name means nothing,
Of people that are identified by number,
Of victims that are murdered in ovens.