The child’s eye peeks into the holes
One to another
Of the masjid’s walls, innocent
Of the terror of old nights,
Of wounds and laments.
The holes won’t show
The burning trees,
No longer the lifeless scree.
The smoke invisible,
The spilled blood dries.
Only the swaying leaves
Dew from yesterday’s rain
Flash before his eyes. He sees
And hears the river revived.
As he glances
Through the eyehole once more,
He wonders
If it is time to look
For his father and brother,
For his beloved, warriors fallen.
