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


Towards each other

Against each other

Scraped against the barbed wire of freedom.



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