Youthful hands empty and bare,
Became the aim of impetuous beasts.
In a faint cry of ‘mother hold me tight’,
The young man’s groans the air stuffed.
In night shrills and sisters bewails,
The pebble swelled into a burial stone,
Of a half lived childhood and never lived youth.

O’ you who trampled our tender feet,
Our children too were born from wombs,
Like the womb your mother bore you,
Those knitted dreams in labor throes.
O’ you who wilted our buds and blooms,
The daffodil bulbs on our burial mounds,
Shall remind you of your conquests lost,
In defiant florets those outlived your war.

~S~

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