Ballad of the War Torn Child

The moon, big and free, above our heads was surrounded by flickering stars our feet dragged on the cracked, cold soil as our eyes peered through the dark. The idea of uncertain safety luring each and every child the hope, that in groups, they'll make it through the night implanted in every mind. Old blankets strewn across bare ground and children stretched above them, below a roof, hidden from the rain or by a light too dim. The unlucky, taken in the ark of the night, placed in their hands are guns placed in their minds are lies and hurt. The unlucky have nowhere to run. The sun was great and sharp in the sky, it beat down on our backs, as we walked along that dirt trail, our feet dragged on those cracks.