Little palms must have
begged for forgiveness
(invasion of course)
Hiding under wooden
benches
Jaws clenched
(a gunpowder bite)
Eyes shut tight
Heads full of bright
lights must’ve been
blasted open with big bombs
The inside must’ve spilled onto
cold concrete
intestine like flesh glistening,
leaking bloody theories
about why the sky was as blue
as mummy’s hijab today,
(And here you lie
longing for one warm embrace
this cold December)
while hundreds long to rewind
get blind
before they find
their own child’s
blood slowly, tenderly
gushing towards their dry feet
forming royal red puddles
around their
worn out sand coloured sandals
as they wait and wait
and then wait some more
for the final bell to ring,
for their children to
come rushing back to
their arms once more
if only for the last time…
this cruel, cold December.
….
– Ananya Maheshwari
