Electrifying bullets fly–fatal and fast.
A veiled woman falls.
Footsteps do not slow
even as the baby squirms in her arms
trying to breathe free from her
tightening, dying clutches.
They both lie in the mid-morning heat.
Overturned carts and abandoned bicycles
litter the lifeless street.
The square is silent and smells of a red brown
trickle rust across the ground.
Her name meant Grace.
His name was Noah.
They fly to the pearly gates only to find further cages.