a Kiran Zehra poem
Over the rubbles stands a little boy
Dusting his clothes sans joy.
He seemed like he just got of a bad ride
And fell into this rubble tide.
And we know not his name
If this is this part of some game?
That throws children down
And bleeds their whole town.
His face looks dusted and speared with blood
Behind his shoulder rise more children from the mud.
Who are these children?
Where is this town?
He seems to have made a home in my head
He screams in pain, tired of bloodshed.
I want to console him and say ‘Don’t cry.’
When I reach out to him he asks me ‘Why?’
Why my home and why my town?
Why me as your internet clown?
I have nothing to say and I cry too
Why isn’t there anything I can do?
Closer I look he seems like my own child
This town is mine with peace exiled
His motionless and painful eyes
Stare at me defying all lies
Will he grow old to love the world?
Or crash it with the hate that upon him hurled?
How should I tell him that I really care?
How should I tell him that I am there?
Kiran Zehra Komail: Put her in the mountains and she will bargain rhymes and rhythm from the tallest tree and the sward. Place her in the concrete jungle and she will sing you a song of love midst the streets and the walls. Show her a burning torch and she would tell you hope is approaching! Call Ms Kiran Zehra Komail, a whirlwind of ideas or a foodie her zest for life is endless and so are her dreams! She could redefine the shades of red, yellow, black or white in words so vivid you’d almost wonder if the true shade of it was this. She works for Rotary News as the Sub Editor of the English and Hindi magazine. Travel, gourmet and people to her are intriguing. Her poems and sketches are her theorem – simple yet deep and humble.