Friday, 23 October 2015


After burning his baby sister’s body
Among the graves of fireflies
He sat on the ground looking onto the sky
With his glistening bright eyes

The train of memories arrived
And he could see himself
Standing by his weeping sister
Asking him “why do the fireflies
Have to die so young?”

The question was so absorbed
That no answer would suffice
To break down the flow
Of tears from his eyes

He stood up
And ran through the broken street
With his thumping heart
To the place where they once lived
Before U.S.A burnt their house down

He could again
Hear the laughter
Of his three-year-old sister
But she wasn't there anymore

The broken frame
Of his father’s portrait
Lied on the floor
Insignificant and pale

Fragrance of the steaming rice
Haunted him this time
As he went into the kitchen
Mourning his broken fate

The tears couldn't stop
And the legs couldn't stand
He collapsed on the ground
With his words unable to find their way out

Lifting his face to the cracked ceiling
He then asked the question
“Why did you curse me with life?
Why did you not let me too die?”

“Run Run Run
The monstrous planes are here again
They’ll throw the flames
And burn the frame,
The frame of your soul”
Said a beggar
Still alive, sitting
Somewhere in the burnt alley.

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