Broken is my reaction:
A child, now a man,
lifts a child, both dusted,
carried, one barefooted
caught in sleep, or poverty?
He looks dead,
must his back be bared?
Or does his red shirt roll
over his hung head to mask his death?
But it could be a girl, either way,
carried from that blast,
where stairs hang
as if Escher had been
at work in Aleppo on another
Regular Division of the Plane.