A Martyr's Son Poem by AISWARYA THARA BHAI ANISH

I don't know what to tell a martyr's son
When he comes to school and looks at the black board.

At the end of the day I am a teacher and
sometimes I am empathetic, mostly tired
And weighed down by bills and badgering
So I can afford sympathy, and when I do -
I think about you, the martyr's son.

In Sana'a, I think the heat beats down on you
And you do not know if who you pray for
Gives you justice.
In Gaza, I think the bullets drizzle and missiles rain
And the martyr's breathe their last into that mist.
The weather in Tehran is a winter of violence
There's so much red than there are roses, what joy,
In this part of the country, we don't cry so much.

So we don't know what you go through, martyr's son.
And I know lesser and lesser of your daughters - where
Are they even seen?

When your childhood is snatched, your innocence thieved
All I can do is whisper you some letters and tell you to be
Brave.
Brave - when you have no sense of fear, because after all,
You are the martyr's son.