Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people! (Jeremiah 9.1)

Voice of the Child …

He woke up one morning and found that the water pump had broken down. The tremors of the earth made sure of that. The child (poor babe!) was parched, for the dry, arid weather one could not acclimate to when their previous land was full of life, greenery, and substance. Here, one could hardly find any greens upon the lands except the sharp cactus of the earth.

So he did what any child wandering those god-forsaken lands would, and went down to the nearest stream from which that pump drew water.

Forsaken…

To the adult that would have been but a short journey. Our experience dilutes time. Hours become minutes, days become seconds, and months become routine. This poor child, that journey must have taken millenias! His young feet could hardly waddle, what with the scars and burns plastered upon him from the scorching of that land.

…

(Innocence that evokes tears! Oh, if only I could shelter you from the injustices of this world, if only I could preserve this innocent child; this lamb who wanders the scorched gardens of eden… oh! If only I could tell you that God is not in those lands, for man has made sure that His death was made real).

Lost…

He wanders the lands like lamb, but this piece of innocence tacitly understands his shepherds did not abandon him. Where might they be? He wonders. He is too young to understand that the napalm has burned them down to dust and ash scattered across the land.

He found water. Hurriedly he ran to the stream of clear blue, satiating the thirst. Suddenly, he felt the earth shake, and was unsure of what to do. He crouched down, folding his ear flaps, his ears ringing, and felt, for an instance, a burning intensity that could not be described. Then it ceased, and he was no more.

…Gone.

-Onur A. Ayaz