#a poem addressed to you

I am writing you a poem
on a thursday morning
sitting in my cubicle

i have some work piled up,a few mails to read
my little daughter has sty,
i need go home early

but these words are tossing and turning
within me, i feel them sit sulking in my chest
heavy, weighing me down

sir, are you the one who planted bombs?
and are you sitting at home today,drinking coffee,
sprawled out. relaxing after a job well down.

surfing channels,smiling as you answer the phone
your boss is mighty pleased i guess
and maybe you've made some dough

or maybe you are walking amidst corpses,
bundles of white.Carefully stepping over the bits of flesh
listening to the broken cries, breathing it in.

yeah, there are pools of blood,brains spilling out
that? oh it just some piles of limbs
did you see the faceless people,the mangled torsoes stacked up.

listen. its just the mourning,some are bitter cries,
oh! to hear the silent ones, place your hand
over some heaving hearts

yes. you got us this time.you've briused our soul.
gruesomely blown up our fathers,mothers,sons and daughters
made widows. orphaned our young.


you have our tears.take our hoarse cries too.
our anger and our anguish
take them with you.

take it to your home.
lay it on your wounds
and see if they heal.

our cries will return to you every night
before you drift off to sleep
and your dreams will be about faceless people

if you did this for money,
your abode will carry the stink of blood
your drawing room will echo with cries of anguish

and we?
we will bury our dead. we will mourn.
we will be filled with righteous anger.

we will grow stronger. heal.