On the evening of the second day, a moon appeared and somewhere far away, a piper played a lament which carried on the wind.
To the right of me, over the bomb-blasted edge, the boy who had been crying for his mother, spoke no more. And yet I missed the sound of another soul, even one tormented.
On the highest ridge, silhouetted by the light of sky and war, I watched you dance. Your frozen scream caught in time and your broken body trapped upon the barbed-wire.
Each gust of wind made you jig and dance, as if for the pleasure of some unseen eyes.
In the morning, I promised I would cut you down and let you rest; your dancing days are gone.
bobby stevenson 2015