I bait the lights
to recluse into darkness,
as I step again into a past
made of voiceless shadows.
If I look closely,
the shadows conjure images:
of a ruined city and orphaned children.
If I smell closely:
it all smells of gunpowder,
dried blood and unending screams.
and if I move closer:
I am in again in the war itself,
they never really end,
their shadows never disappear.
I have learned to live with them,
and they follow me,
wherever I go.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Days worsen
as men leap onto me
in bodies riddled
with bullets
smelling of blood
shrieking mutely
eyes white
with a fear unfelt
the whole life
tongues desperate
for comforting lies
pleads for redemption
never comes out
of their silenced mouths
I silently pass on prayers
closing their eyes
to avoid seeing
the holy/unholy
gates they will
end up in their
afterlives.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Do you know even,
what darkness looks like?
it is when your home turns to dust
from sudden shellings
and you walk over bodies
of children,women and brave men
you once knew,blown up in syria,
the middle eastern sun even couldn’t outshine this obscured darkness
when your first flight out of country,
ends up with your body tattered in pieces,
dropping from 35,000 feet just,
because pro rebel russians felt showing how big their balls are,
and here you sit,
pleased in your well perfumed house
petting your cat,
while writing on your mac-book,
“the way he left me, I was confined to darkness”
I pity your darkness
but I hope you recover soon
from a weak heart
and delusions of insignificance
Mama I see ants,
Over the shore,
all crawling there,
I do not see daddy here,
Why Mommy,
where did daddy go?,
his boots are gone mommy,
even Bujo is scared,
he keeps barking all night,
i saw stars so bright,
I heard thunders and explosions,
I see smoke,
I see flashes on the beach,
i hear people mommy,
i see them lying on beach
and i see blood from my head,
don’t lie down mommy,
Lets go mommy,
before the sun rises.
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flames burning
cities ruined
blood splattered
children wailing
helpless dying
all seen at once
on a canvas
of a painter
who once
survived
rage of nations.
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broken frame,
glass on the floor,
a letter unopened,
tears echoed,
for someone,
who said he would be back,
to read the night stories,
to play the games,
to take all camp side,
one sunny day,
But that day he became,
part of earth,
with clouds of tears,
thunders of disgust,
they all ask how it happened,
she now says proudly,
killed in action.
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Writings to Heaven 