her hands cradle a white bundle tied into knots at the ends,
somehow spotless despite the rubble around them.
how much care they must have to put into keeping white cloth clean amid relentless bombing.
she wails, head upturned to the sky,
tears pouring down her cheeks,
her hands cradle the curves of the bag that used to hold his hand
her body curls around the lifeless form,
both heavy and devastated.
she cradles her child the same way i do when he snores softly, soft and heavy in my arms.
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