War child

S/he is more than blood, bone,
a face, raised from rubble,
with grey and crimson skin,
like a clown’s in a movie
s/he’s too young to see,

more than a casualty strapped
to a bright orange seat, driven
through shattered streets
where s/he ran to school when
a kiss could mend a graze,

more than a cost, a loss or gain
of war, a wall to be demolished
where ideas strike like flint
and steel.
          S/he is the place where stars

come to Earth, where ocean meets
shore and change rocks steady
and slow. S/he raises her hand
to the sky. S/he is life,
s/he is light.