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After the Bomb Blast

She was only five, yet called herself
Striker Chhetri Junior in her dreams.
She knew her goal; she knew her path,
But as she gazed at the beam that had crushed her,
She realized she needed both feet.

The dead are not the only ones who died...

For four years he had only found
Joy in the world wherein he lived.
But that his glass - still filled - dropped,
As fear and fire stole neither love nor life,
Just the hope that drove him forward.

The dead are not the only ones who died...

Though only three, it was she
Who guided her younger brother.
Hand-in-hand they had walked inside.
Only she returned, not the boy
Nor her confidence that held him tight.

The dead are not the only ones who died...

Two years old was his imagination
That created empires from tents and slums.
But not even fantasy's flights
Could mask the debris and the screams
That would forever raze his childish mind.

The dead are not the only ones who died...

At the tender age of one,
She saw both her parents perish.
Who'll explain to this little child
That love still resides
In the ruins left behind?

The dead are not the only ones who died.

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