Buried under the rubble
In nature's worst fury unleashed
Rocks and metal, ash and dust,
Nothing from death to shield.
She lets out a cry, a feeble call,
Nothing except darkness around,
Lungs filled with dust, yet chords so sharp,
Death and destruction surrounds.
Barely is she a hundred days old,
But a hundred hours she's breathed,
Covered in debris, blood and pain,
In a thin baby wrap she's sheathed.
Big brown eyes, the slightest smile,
Her hands raised out to the world,
Despite the looming gloom outside,
'Fighting' say her fingers curled.
Strong hands save her tiny frame,
Rescue from where she was trapped.
A survivor she is, she's beaten all odds,
Sans the ability to think or act.
Sweet child, where did you find?
That spirit to keep ticking still,
When time weighed upon your little bones,
How did your soul bear the chill?
Would I have that courage when,
I'm fighting against all odds,
At the dust and debris trapping me,
In a world that hurts, defrauds?
Or would I rather give up the fight,
And bid the world adieu?
Without the faith in those strong hands,
Which are waiting to reach me and rescue.
