Story hour for refugees

It is the witching time again: the day
 Burns out in purple twilight. On the grass
 Strange shadows somersault, and who can say
 What may, or may not, wake and come to pass?
 Fairies or goblins? In a moment now
 Angela and Pierre will come to me,
Unsmilingly, and pause and gravely bow.
 "Madame, the story-it is time, you see."
What does one tell to children who have seen
 The stark sky splintered with a blazing hell
Of bursting bombs, whose feet, along the green,
 Have stumbled over death? What does one tell? 
How does one start the words and watch them grow
Unfolding into life, and love, and laughter?
 How does one end the tale for two, who know 
There is no ''living happy ever after?"

HELEN FRAZEE-BOWER.