The Shadow Lines

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

Severed

Towards each other

Against each other

Scraped against the barbed wire of freedom.

plate

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s