And I, my mother,
died without intent,
while I was searching for life.
I rushed
toward a light,
thinking it was a loaf of bread
at dawn that survived the bombing,
but it was a trap,
and the loaf of bread
was the edge of absence.
I waited for a breath of air
to pass over me without permission.
I ran after life
like a child forgotten by time in the alley.
First came the bullets
I asked them, “Is this life?”
They answered me… with silence.
I stumbled over the name of my neighbor
who was bombed two days ago,
and fell.
When I called for you in the crowd,
my voice choked on sorrows.
I did not die a hero as the news says
I just died… because I wanted to live.
