It was not a sheet of paper
That could be torn into shreds
47- the word pricks a thorn in my throat.
The ink stains can’t be removed
With water and soap
47- it sends an eerie shiver down my spine.
It was not a cricket pitch
Where boundaries make laws
47- a train-ride of stillborn hope.
It was mothers, nursing infants
It was fathers, coming home with the month’s pay
It was children
Floating paper boats in streams
That would soon be crimson
With the anguish of brokenness.
It was humanity
Towards each other
Against each other
Scraped against the barbed wire of freedom.