“Why don’t we go to the park, father,”
Asked the little boy, slipping his little palm into his
father’s,
“Like we used to every day
Till a month back?”
“Why don’t we walk around the park, father,”
He asked, tugging his father towards the gate,
“Like we used to every day
Till a month back?”
“Why is it not safe anymore, father”
He asked, gripping his father’s hand tightly,
“But it used to be
Till a month back?”
“Why is the park so bare, father,”
He asked, looking all around, puzzled,
“It was never so
Till a month back?”
“Why are the benches vacant, father,
Where are the grandpas and grandmas?
Why are the swings and see-saws still?
Where are the little children?
Why are the trees so silent, father
Where are the birds?
Why is the ground so bare, father
Where did the grass go?”
“And what is this small patch, father,
It was not there before
This red-brown earth all cracked and bare
What is this pit in the park, father?
It was not there
Till a month back?”
“But why did people die here father
Who dropped the bomb?
And whose blood is this, father,
That of the killer or the killed?
If all blood is the same, father,
Then what did they fight over?
And why is the park bare
And the grass red?”
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