Violence

The vine-covered walls imprison sounds
the cobbled ground barely makes sounds as
the boy walks slowly through the street.
It is midday. The boy looks up, in contrast with
the mud-coloured walls, dusty brown road
the sky is an open sanctuary. If this is a dream,
it doesn’t feel so bad to die in a sleep but this is life.
Red pomegranates in a plastic bag, a football
under his left armpit, short cut jeans
a shirt white as jasmine, a smile and a quick dash.
      These all
           “A boy killed —” one headline says
                                                   cease to exist
Violence creeps like termites devouring wood
until only faint traces of the living can be seen
the headline doesn’t say this:
                                      “A boy is in a sanctuary.”