They walked like shadows out of the dust,
their faces not yet truly comprehending.
Amazing how much dust flies
in the death of a building,
in the death of a concept,
in the heart of a child, a wife, a friend
whose life is ripped apart
every bit as surely
as the building.
In mankind’s eternal quest
to play the games that cause grief,
may we remember, if just for a moment,
each life touched
has a story to tell,
each face is not merely a counter
in an unending game,
and contemplate the cost of pain,
and remember that compassion means
to suffer with.