children, stay on the bus

the threatening red horizon 

of another early dawn,

with no birds singing

in winter weary trees,

and house doors swinging noisily,

opening

to frigid air,

was prophetic from where i stood.

everything seemed strange,

with loud thunder claps exploding,

but no rain.

in the maternity room,

pregnant women cried in pain,

waiting for a birth that might never arrive.

the trains hadn't been on time for several days.

someone on the station platform imagined an end to the day 

which had begun

with a strong smell of danger in the air.

on the only straight road leading west out of town,

an old woman struggled to carry her life's memories inside a small, torn bag.

there were hollowed-eyed people digging

communal burial trenches,

under the threat of their own sudden death.

a farmer's field remained unplowed,

and soldier's boots filled a property line ditch.

mother, a voice calls, where are your sons?

an answer arrives:

father, is your gun clean and ready to fire?

yes! children, stay on the bus heading to paradise.