A naked child is running

    along the path toward us，

    her arms stretched out，

    her mouth open，

    the world turned to trash

    behind her.

    She is running from the smoke

    and the soldiers， from the bodies

    of her mother and little sister

    thrown down into a ditch，

    from the blown-up bamboo hut

    from the melted pots and pans.

    And she is also running from the gods

    who have changed the sky to fire

    and puddled the earth with skin and blood.

    She is running——my god——to us，

    10，000 miles away，

    reading the caption

    beneath her picture

    in a weekly magazine.

    All over the country

    we're feeling sorry for her

    and being appalled at the war

    being fought in the other world.

    She keeps on running， you know，

    after the shutter of the camera

    clicks. She's running to us.

    For how can she know，

    her feet beating a path

    on another continent？

    How can she know

    what we really are？

    From the distance， we look

    so terribly human.