I saw the weeping
imprints on the pavement
Left by leaves that fell from nearby trees
And travelled in the wind to settle there
Until the day the raging raindrops carried them away
But not before they left a sign to tell us:
We were here.
The smeared and dirty brands
Remain like sooty outlines
Of Hiroshima's blistered victims;
Or the indent in a car that bore the impact
Of a falling woman fleeing the torment of life
To rest in her bed of mangled metal and glass;
Or statues of the lava's prey,
Now frozen in poses of terror,
Captured in hardened fire
At the moment their bodies perished
But their image lives on.
This is the masterpiece of death.