December

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

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