Washed up on the beach,
choking in seaweed,
in the rubble of a crumbled building,
dusty, tattered,
by the side of the road,
still new, nestled in the weeds–
like part of a breadcrumb trail–
are the clues that the dead children,
the stolen children,
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.