in thick air cries of crows
ash smudging the scene
Szymborska says spring is dead
writers may no longer praise
what grows from the dirt-filled
mouths of the murdered
but the habit of hope is hard
to shake—children lacing fingers
with ours—the lit face of a girl
singing—few escape untouched
then time ripens and small voices
in cold rooms rise to no one
outside and crows stir