We sat on the flatbed of the truck,
In the desert of Nimruz, when we saw seven corpses.
Who had killed these poor people?
We got off to look at the dead.
The men were young, 20, 21 years old,
All dead, except for one.

He was still breathing.

The blood on his body had already dried.
We asked him, »what happened?«
He said, quietly, »thieves.«
They had been ambushed and robbed.
The dying man warned us: »robbers, robbers, take a different route.«
We fled and left him lying there.

Could I have done anything differently? 

This poem won an award.