I have seen you, shell-shocked city,Shimmer in the parachute flaresThe day's dust and exhaust glowing greenIn the light of descending torches.I have heard the wooden whoopingOf the gunship's prop as it circles Districts 7 and 8,Pouring down fire, every fourth round a tracer,A blazing stream arching onto its target.Then, emptied, it flies away, leaving the night in silence,Save for the rustle of bamboo leaves.I have watched as the flares rock gently to their firefly deaths,Returning the night to blackness.Darkness – soft as felt cloth, brittle as smoked glass.Shattered by a single rifle shot –