The Dhayhan schoolbus airstrikes ended 43 young lives in their spring time. The hopes and dreams, maybe adorned in kites, or on the wings of birds and butterflies.

We will never read stories, poems, or enjoy the fruit or seeds they sow or bear witness to taking up arms and walk, the Quran above their heads to fight the bastards of Zion.

Every year, on this recurring day, a new cut deeper than the previous.

The sorrow is so humongous that it exceeds the distance between here and the magestic mountains of Sadah, where once a life-giving river was flowing down to the estuaries between Hadramout and Al Mahra.

What is it that keeps the parents alive? Do their hearts shutter in shards with every passing day?

Maybe their hearts and minds took the shape of the hoopeos and glided beyond the highest mountain, where no bird can fly above.