A Children's Story

Maybe he was ten
perhaps just nine,
but the look in his eyes
mirrored a hundred lives.

He carried his brother
like his father would have —
proud,
slung on the back
and touched the child
every now and then
as if to remind him
that all would be well.

He unbundled the baby
before the waiting crew
and watched fire
embrace the baby's clothes.
The orange crackled,
licking off the mirth,
roaring as it pillaged
skin, flesh and bone.

All this time
the brother stood
unblinking,
watching,
biting
his lip
until bright blotches
spilled on Hiroshima's soil.

When they landed,
one couldn’t tell
blood from blood.

They say by then
even the earth
had forgotten
how to weep.


From Joe O Donnell’s photo essays on Japan after World War II