At midnight, a bird

 and a picture, stare at me.

Then all the sad memories arrived,

the happy ones too.

It is a time of suffering.

Should I pretend sleep,

all memories fall, indescribable.

If I sit up, I'm ripped apart

by heavier thoughts.

I'll never forget those moments,

never.

You, picture, insult me, stab

your fingers inside me.

Later you wipe my tears

and play with me.

Please keep away.

You're hurting, hurting me.

"You planted flowers in my heart"

 the picture said.

"The best flowers are those

which are planted

in the heart

and fed by the heart,

but in the end

you killed those flowers"

The picture disappeared.

"You, bird", I said,

 "bring the picture."

The bird disappeared.

To me, killing flowers...

killing a baby in his crib,

preventing flowers from growing,

prohibiting food and medicine

from a dying baby—

the sanctions of warfare.

To me, this is not a crime

but the mother of all crimes.

Where is the picture?

Where is the bird?

The morning is breathing; please come again

won't you come again?

Come to read you a story,

a verse of love.