Rain patters gently upon the roof, 
Tiny dancing feet pirouetting to an
Ancient symphony.

The boy, lying on a mattress
Made of hay and linen, rests 
In the  arms of innocence.

A crash……

The door to the living quarters
Below implodes….
Figures, dressed in black, saunter into
The house.

Their Eyes reflect the firelight 
Like tiny demons, dancing on the 
Wind…..

They are wearing masks….

The boy, now awake, lies 
Cowering in  the attic loft above.

He tastes terror like bitter wine.

He cannot see…..But he can hear….

The screams of his mother and sister
Pierce the silent night like arrows from the
Bow.

He hears the screams (oh god where is da?)
The moans, the helpless whimpering of the women 
As the men have their way…
 

Voices, contorted by hate….
The cruel laughter of one far 
Beyond fear.

Glass shatters against a wall,
A table teeters and falls….destruction complete….

The boy, frozen by terror never sees the 
Gun that spatters the brains of  his mother 
And sister  against that wall…..but he hears it…
(oh god please)…

He  cannot help but hear it (where is DA!)

A voice cries, “Check the loft!”

Heavy footsteps below….
The boy cannot move….
The ladder leading upwards creaks 
Loudly…

The  boy cannot  move…he can 
Only wait for death.

Miracle…

The ladder crashes under the weight
Of death’s messenger, who bellows in rage
As his comrades laugh.

The boy finds his nerve,
And his feet.

Into the darkness…

The boy, once off of the roof
Leaps  towards the shadows of
Night…the house behind  him goes 

Up in flames.

The boy hides  in the potatoes and beans, where he watches his 
World crumble like the sand castle in the face of  the gale. (oh god where is da?)

Dim rays of morning….

The boy, chilled by the early mists, is wakened
From his slumber.  He rubs his eyes looking above
As he does….

The tree, the pride of  a farming family holds 
The swinging corpse of he who played football
(god no) taught him about honor….taught him to fight.

Sunlight fading…

The boy has cut his father down, burying him in
The soft mounds of tilled earth, among the potatoes 
And beans…

The bones of his mother and sister are with him in
Eternal rest.

He sits, a man, numb and cold, knees hugged close,
As dreams of guns  and bombs and revenge dance 
In his minds eye like the dancing of night spirits….

Darkness….and the death of innocence