In memory of Hiroshima

For everyone who has made the pilgrimage

The domed temple beneath the blast
Is a wailing wall for those whose humanity survived.
Who can ever forget the keening moans
Of the little children who walk through the museum,
Not knowing what what they see,
But knowing Abaddon instinctively.
Let the generals and the historians play God,
And tell us that it had to be,
In Hiroshima, each pilgrim palpates God,
Touching her own mortality.

(crossposted from Daily Kos)