Washed up on the beach,
choked in seaweed;
in the ruins of a crumbled building,
or in the corners of an abandoned one,
tattered and dirty and hanging by their shoelaces;
by the side of the road,
still new, lost in the weeds—
like part of a breadcrumb trail—
are the clues that the dead children,
the stolen children,
and even the forgotten children
leave behind,
if only to say that they left an imprint,
even if it was nothing more
than a carbon footprint.