I watch the fathers running through the streets,

carrying their limp dead children in their arms,

their broken hearts bleeding grief and rage.

I see them running past the wounded everywhere,

past the blood, past the fires, past the crumbling buildings,

past the rubble of homes and businesses,

past the screams--fathers running for their lives

on frantic feet through smoke filled air,

the boom of bombs bursting in their ears,

bullets ricocheting as they run past horror

for somewhere they can lay their dead child

down and pray, somewhere quiet,

somewhere away from war and hate,

where their aching love can cry and kiss

as if their lips could bring back life.

And sitting here, my eyes cannot believe

that what I’m seeing now is real

and not a movie, not a scene that the commercial

break can take away and I think that father

could be me running with my neighbors,

aware my next step could be my last,

aware that even when the bombs

and bullets stop, no silence will bring

forgiveness for this loss and I know

there is no place to run from memories,

from grief, from a war that will never end,

even when the fighting stops, and so

I turn the TV off and sit here in the dark,

my woodstove warming me,

my sorrow aching in my throat,

my eyes still looking at that father’s eyes.