The ruins of homes
are often the piles
of human discourse.
Unperturbed but by
gently settling ash
and sparrows and rats.
We came to kneel amidst
the ruins of human lives
so we might take refuge
against the ruins
of our own.
We huddled around
small fires to light
what's been hid in ignorance,
among rooms without roofs
and children with no names.
In the night the flickering light
of the bonfire, fed but by
leaves and old timbers
and tattered clothes and sparks
drifting up like rising tears from the fire.
We find under the bright stars
that we do not share company.
We find under the bright stars
that we are standing alone.