The blood that your weapons drew
Tinged the footpath,
Railway station and commonplace houses
With a fiery shade of red,
Have now weathered into meagre brown stains,
Almost invisible through the dust accumulated;
Now, we walk on them
Every day
We do not have those wounds
Nor does fresh blood oozes out of them,
Yet, deep within, all of us have a wound
That has not healed thus far.

Some people stood up to put up a fight
Against your automatic rifles,
Wounded and died;
They were honored with martyrdom
Then fade into oblivion
Behind cheap medals and memoirs,
Their women don’t cry anymore,
Their children don’t wait for them to return home
Every night,
Their mourning have silenced
Yet, the calm is not bliss
Grief is still on the air we breathe in.

Before you strike again,
You will only rip open the old scar,
You will hurt none but yourself again.

I wrote this piece shortly after the severe terrorist attack in Mumbai on the black day of 26/11/08, when the militants appeared out of nowhere in public places and started shooting common people. One of them was caught alive and is still held in a trial.

I am linking this poem to @dversepoets Memorial Day- Poetry prompt

I would like to know what you think about this :

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