We used to sit out in the Maidan Square

Before the war, and chat into the night;

Our arguments continued well past twelve.

We called ourselves the late show, like TV.

But now there is a late show every day:

Late husbands, brought back home in body bags;

Late wives, uncovered by a fire crew;

Late children, each identified by toys,

Beneath the expendable wrecks of schools.

With our late show, we would return each week,

While none of the above will reappear.

Their bodies are beyond affection’s reach,

But memories cannot be wished away,

And love and hope, unquenchable, hold firm.