There is a music to this all. The din has an order of orders. A human touch behind all arms. All of it manufactured, stars above all. Something melting, a dove molting, warning through dusk. One child after another gathered if possible, washed where possible, wrapped there is always cloth. All the wild preyed on them pride from the women, always the women in the hot houses of a winter's war. The cameras leave with the men and the bodies always the women somehow, somehow putting tea on fire, gather the living children if possible, washing them when possible, praying on them through their hair onto their palms onto deer life, something fusing into dawn. Feathers shed eyes people in a high-valid state. That's when breathing feeds burns. That's where settlers take high ground. That's how villages bulldoze, be tweaked holidays before your eyes. High, violence, holy children, lamb, and experience no longer inherited actual earth and scorched concrete heart and smoking beat.