The colour of dead
black skin
Was visible in the
bright orange light
Cavities created
piercing the flesh.
That was an
overwhelming catastrophe.
He was dozing
between pillows,
Grandpa’s gramophone
played,
A well known ghazal.
His sister was
making masala tea,
One of her merry
time hobbies.
The nearby gunshot
made her tea spill,
Terror saddled
without notice
It didn’t finish in
a shot.
Rather, it went on
With no place for
the blood to flow out.
Cotton from the
pillows formed designs
Of the modern
world.
The cold-hearted
barbarians
Camouflaged as
humans,
Thirsty for their
own brother’s blood
Smashed the fingers
still holding the tea cup,
And moved their way
against God’s will.