The news flashes as red as the cobblestones in Nice.
If it bleeds, it leads.
But oh how much it bleeds—
an endless stream of gore wrung from the flag of the United Nations.
So we light the wicks
and send our prayers.
(How many more candles can we burn
before Earth resembles hell?)
But even before the candles stopped burning,
somewhere between Treuchtlingen and Wurzburg,
a boy decides that human lives were meant for slaughter.
Another man returns eight people back to their maker—
and then himself.
So Germany cries.
Because only three full moons before,
a temple in Essen erupted
both in prayers and in debris.
They have risen above the Nations
as a beacon for the lost,
but attacked by their own generosity.
Now in the country of love,
France; mourning until night.
Digging graves in anticipation
for the death of men
and the death of hope.
They fear it metastasizing—slowly, undetected.
The continent is like a body,
the roads like arteries.
But the wounded
helps the wounded.
This is not a warning,
not a deterrent.
It is a haunting lesson in empathy.
meant to represent daily affairs.
Still, the countries yell in fear
as the refugees beg in desperation:
Please, don’t hurt us—
Let my people live.