#Peshawar

He.

Was all of eight.
Eight little years, ten little fingers.
Just about learning to control pencils, the mightiest thing they'd ever do.
Just about learning to stay in the lines, and failing, like he was meant to.
Just about learning to throw balls, like little globes in a green universe.
Just about looking about and seeing what the world is.
A little globe in a black universe.

She 
Was all of thirteen.
Thirteen short years, but today she was about thirty-nine,
Because at about nine-thirty the math teacher would walk in.
And ask for questions thirty to ninety.
She said His name just about nine hundred times.
Oh God, let her be on leave.
She hoped He just might listen.

They
Were only blinks in creation's timeline.
Millions of years of evolution.
Just another afterthought for the earth.
Just another few hundred souls
In just another spot on the map.
Waiting for just another school bell.
Just about insignificant enough to be nothing.
Just about magical enough to be everything.

The earth, of course, didn't hear the school bell ring.
She kept spinning.
She didn't hear the gunfire either.
Nor the sounds that shattered ears.
Or hearts or futures.
Or pasts or presents.
The children were presents.
She kept on spinning.
She didn't feel the blood over her.
Young blood, all of eight and thirteen and everything in between.
She didn't feel the pain.
Not the one that was gone in a moment.
Not the one that would last forever.
She didn't see herself being torn apart.
She didn't feel these tectonic plates moving about
Crushing her
Killing her.
She just kept on spinning.

As you kept on scrolling.
As I kept on writing.
As we all keep on breathing.
And dying.
And living.
But some had just about started.
Now they are names and numbers.

Male, eight, explosion.
Female, thirteen, gunshot.
Planet, four and a half billion, apathy!