A poem i wrote after watching a news account of terrorism in J&K.
From a victim's point of view
Where Life Used To Be

There is no home;
No place to go.
Only houses stand
Where life used to be.
Where laughter filled the air.
“Out!” someone shouted, as a ball,
Thrown from carefree little hands
Struck the stumps.
But gunshots have replaced them all now.
Bullets have killed innocent chatter.
My home is dead now.
The splintering of glass,
The ricochet of a bullet,
A splatter of blood,
A shriek of pain,
Marked its death.
Only four walls are left –
Numerous scars on their faces;
But all the more on their hearts
- waiting eternally to tell their story
But no one to share the anguish.
The city was alive once they say;
But a smell of burning flesh
Is all they leave of life.
Of a heart, full of love,
A mind, full of dreams.
It is all they leave of a life,
The creatures who roam this city now;
With guns in their hands
And hatred
In their hearts.
There is no home
No place to go.