by Nick Gisburne
She picks her way across the killing field.
Too many children, innocents, have died.
A blade of silver, carefully concealed,
Is hers to hold, though others, fools, have tried.
She slithers, stumbles, searching for a breath,
For proof that here, in darkness, hope survives,
But silence, in this holocaust of death,
Is louder than the story of their lives.
A whimper, feeble, fading, only one.
The bloody, broken body of a boy.
He whispers for salvation. There is none.
Her gift is given quickly, without joy.
Content, she keeps the promises she made,
Delivering the mercy of a blade.
