Smudge of Blood
Here, this smudge of blood,
Of a tender boy of eleven,
Soaked thru the tarmac,
Yet to be dried, still wet and warm!
An innocent young lad,
Fades-in my mind,
Your bag! Your bag!
Picking up a shopping bag,
Shouting and chasing the biker,
Who slings the bag into the crowd,
And cruises at a high speed.
Shouting repeatedly in vain,
Albeit he ran a bit far away from the crowd,
Your Bag! Your Bag!
Oh! Sudden, the shopping bag explodes
Shredding in to pieces, the poor boy.
Scattering around his fresh flesh all over.
"My son! " "My son! "
The horror stricken mother gasps.
Dreadfully aloud and running to the spot,
Where her son has been ripped,
Plight of the mother is tearful.
Compassions and rancours surge up,
Cries and sighs of the shocked crowd, aghast.
Mother out of sense of mind,
Insanely hasten gathering,
Of her only beloved son's tender bod.
Warm blood dripping fleshes, broken skul,
Clasping to her bosom
"Oh! My Son, My Son. '
Weeping and wailing with a grief uncontrollable,
Caving into the pool of blood…sans...consciousness. ……………………………………………………
A ppalling brutality and the terror,
Of evil minds, will get over when?
Open your eyes, empathize,
NO reward of Heaven, for shedding the innocent blood.
NO reward of Heaven, for this distress of mothers.
What remains is just this smudge of blood…
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(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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