Margaret Atwood: War photo

The dead woman thrown down on the dusty road
is very beautiful.
One leg extended, the other flexed, foot pointed
towards the knee, the arm flung overhead, the hand
relaxed into a lovely gesture
a dancer might well study for years
and never attain.
Her purple robe is shaped
as if it's fluttering;
her head is turned away.

There are other dead people scattered around
like trees blown over,
left in the wake of frightened men
battering their way to some huge purpose
they can't now exactly remember,

But it's this beautiful woman who holds me,
dancing there on the ground
with such perfection.

Oh dead beautiful woman, if anyone
had the power to wrench me through despair
and arid helplessness
into the heart of prayer,
it would be you –

Instead I'll make for you
the only thing I can:
although I'll never know your name,
I won't ever forget you.
Look: on the dusty ground
under my hand, on this cheap grey paper,
I'm placing a small stone, here:
                o