Quiet, like the quiet of hills and the valleys and all the others

used for solace from the bombs and the terror of the cities

and left behind again

with or without a sad glance back

back to the cities

and the light, the light like a beautiful starburst

like the last thing you should ever see

the last thing they did ever see

the last thing they wanted to see

it would have been beautiful

but the heat

brushing your cheek against the sun, plunging your hand into it

diving into it

like losing the child in your arms

looking down on ash

and the screaming

screaming

screaming

gives way to Quiet

quiet like the soul of a city

haunted by ghosts

and the fear

that they have not done enough

to stop it again.