Two men lay on the ground, lifeless, faces of chalk, their beards still thin with youth.
Two men lay on the ground, their fathers and mothers, grandmothers and grandfathers, weeping the same salt tears into the river of sorrow for lost children.
Two men lay on the ground, like chalices of history, feverish old ideologies and the refusal of all who stood there to face them and let go.
Two men lay on the ground because of the daily things that are said and the daily lines that get written so that someone else can bear the blame.
They called one a Muslim and the other a Christian, but they were brothers on the ground as the ants crept through the grass and reminded that all is passing.
Written in memory of all victims of extremist violence.