He roamed through the hundreds of bodies spread across the desert wasteland. As the blasts blew on, warm blood flowed past his bare feet, drowning them in scarlet. He was but a child, his face was smeared with dirt, and deep in the hollows of his eyes lingered the wrath of his weary father. I stared out at him for so long his image buried itself in my chest, and when he approached me all I could see was his smell. “My … mother…” he spoke in broken words delicate and romantic. “Find…her,” he pointed to the mass of dead. How young was he? Raised to stand full-armed, watching the struggle, confused by horrid death, covered in the devil’s skin, tanned by darkened sin. We searched for what seemed like a lifetime in the land where history was covered by sand…Suddenly the boy stopped at a body of what could be described as a woman. The scent of her charred flesh blowing warm in the winds. Her legs were missing; they had been cut by hand from her torso. Her hair was missing…her blood…murdered and stuck in the ground. The boy smiled and fell across her body, tears falling down his curved up lips, crystal colored drops that carried to the heavens to speak of the wrongs done to his mother, her people, her love, her past. He extended his eager arm and let his fingertips brush across her hairless scalp. Her skin broke beneath his touch. He closed his eyes and hung his life next to hers. “Mamma” he cried from his heart.