I Look At The Pictures

I look at the pictures
of the devastation,
so many children dead.

I see a picture
of a man
caressing his dead son,

maybe three
or four years old---
my eyes fill with tears.

One can not help
but think
of one’s own chldren,

grandsons, granddaughters,
innocent children,
each and every one.

Words mean nothing,
the hell with poetry.
Only this

means anything right now:
Tears fill the heart
and the heart

pumps those tears
throughtout
the body.