And we were

walking

up that hill

towards a mulberry tree

whose

drooping branches

concealed a tiny

grave

I was carrying

an elegant bouquet

of wilting

daisies

whose upturned faces

cried out

against the blazing sun

and you walked

behind me

unafraid

through a field of

infant corpses

the both of us

knowing

the harsh reality

of the hundreds

of tiny bodies

beneath those marble blocks:

Those children never

used the

names

writ upon those

stones.