Scorched and smoking husks of grass
and I weep for one and eleven.
Not remained, not smoke like the birds
and the burnt stalks.
But dragged and left in that place.
Indiscrimination of the black cloud
of the driving flame,
the empire of the inevitable.
And the callus on my thumb burns.
Can you hear the smoke
or the hollow of smoke
in the shadow of fleeing children?
The sun burns us all, both you and me.