Sunlight in their small hands,
rising beyond all brands.

Their courage goes on shining;
they were once growing wings.

Until a missile left their building crumbling,
burying, one by one, their dreams—
the wings that once were growing,
now scattered, fading.

Time refused to stop
as tears continued to drop.

Their parents were seeking
the scattered pieces of their morning.

The ink of their writing remains, bearing
witness to their dreams.
And the last story belongs to those dreams,
living as my unfaded ink.