A child
Shrouded in the pall of death
Pale, weak,
with peaceful smile of endless sleep
and a silence, somehow loud.

A small affair
the wooden box, a walnut crate
and silken folds
with buttons – makes a sentinel, there,
before the mourning crowd.

Heavy cries,
Torn hearts and minds with
helpless fists
that hope to seek the wrong to right
though heartless heads stay bowed.

Why this?
A child so young, so small.
A mother’s heart,
father’s enthralled, now broken lives,
their joy and hope both cowed.