Bare Feet

What do you tell a man who shuffles in smelling of dust and diesel, hands shaking, red rimmed eyes, voice quavering as he explains how the children's empty shoes were thrown haphazardly upon the road.
What do you tell a man who beats his fist against the table, once for anger, once for pain, and once for shame because his body and mind went silent when he saw the children's bare feet and small fingers curled and still.
What do you tell a man when he drops his face to the floor, lost in the thought that what was meant for him had turned the children into memories with one hollow thunderclap of combustion and shrapnel.
It is the way of this world. Tomorrow the sun will rise. But I can't say that. Sometimes there is nothing I can say.