They’re running
in and out of shallow waves
back and forth over the wet sand
two young boys
their high excited voices
merging with the hushing of the surf
Hear oh shee ma, they call, oh hear us
oh Hir o shi ma they seem to be calling,
oh can you hear how little we know
oh can you hear, Hir o shi ma.
The impossible strangeness of this,
coming at me as I watch the boys play
those clear vowels lodged as firmly
in my brain as acorns in years of mast
sprouting a reminder
of that other
summer day
the blinding mushroom of fire
the dark shadows made by the death star
mercy has hidden from children.
