there was a school where classrooms were empty

and wide opened windows stared at scattered books,

crayons on the floor and children’s faces knocked down

from the wall, frames smashed. No lessons these days –

now, it’s a bomb shelter. The air still ringing,

rambling in the corridors after all the sounds

faded with a soft clap-clap – like the teacher

claps her hands, like seashells crack – bombs split

as if there was no waiting for the peculiar time

when April meets May, when tadpoles lose their tails.