CHILD'S PLAY IN THE SHADOW OF THE SUN
IX
The Bombing of Bungalow C
The day after the blast,
after the bomb hit Bungalow C,
we,
my friends and I,
some children of the camp,
lay on our stomachs near Bungalow B
and peered through leaves,
watching what went on below
as coolies brought bags,
heavy and full,
out from the bombed building
and loaded them onto carts
which then were towed away.
Fifteen had died
someone said.
Then years after the war's end,
I heard or read,
that fourteen was the count.
The truth might lie
in the number of bags,
but even that I doubt.
Later gathered in ceremony
somber at the cemetery
looking down into open ground
I stared
as bags were lowered into holes,
five to make a grave.
No sorting of parts
that filled the bags;
no sorting of bags,
five to a hole.
Death unites us all.
IX
The Bombing of Bungalow C
The day after the blast,
after the bomb hit Bungalow C,
we,
my friends and I,
some children of the camp,
lay on our stomachs near Bungalow B
and peered through leaves,
watching what went on below
as coolies brought bags,
heavy and full,
out from the bombed building
and loaded them onto carts
which then were towed away.
Fifteen had died
someone said.
Then years after the war's end,
I heard or read,
that fourteen was the count.
The truth might lie
in the number of bags,
but even that I doubt.
Later gathered in ceremony
somber at the cemetery
looking down into open ground
I stared
as bags were lowered into holes,
five to make a grave.
No sorting of parts
that filled the bags;
no sorting of bags,
five to a hole.
Death unites us all.