Last Rites Of Passage Poem by Ima Ryma

The child was walking home from school,
Another day of fourth grade done;
An autumn day, clear, crisp and cool,
Under a bright and cheery sun.
The trees were turning gold and red.
Leaves were scattered along the way.
The child could see the house ahead,
Inside - a snack, outside - to play.
Then suddenly, there came a car
Around the corner, screeching wild.
The guns fired bullets near and far,
Including five that hit the child.

Caught in crossfire of driving hate,
The child died - too early, too late.