Fate

Omran Daqneesh sits in the back of an ambulance after being dug from the debris of an air strike in Syria on Thursday.Photograph by Mahmud Rslan / Anadolu / Getty

What else can it be?
The boy who
was having troubles
with his father,
sat in his office;
a father,
who might have,
for the first time,
dropped his daughter
to school
and that calendar read
11th Sept-
when a writer,
a son
watched
his photos
in a slide show,
on his dad’s
computer screen,
almost repenting,
realizing
that his dad,
has perhaps
changed
and
when things were
finally getting better,
a plane crashed
into thousand souls.
Tyler should not have died,
that day, not when he was 22.

Years later,
A man cooking
at the corner
ran
with many,
to save his life,
from bullets
that were storming
into bodies
unknown to him,
but was the only one
to survive
and narrate,
how doors of hell,
opened in his hotel
And 10 demons came
with automatic weapons,
and took pride
in taking lives;
His refrigerator
had three holes
and if only
he knew
how to paint,
he could have said
what that meant.
Another chef could have died
that day.

One winter morning,
students rushed out,
into the school garden,
but it wasn’t for the bell
that signals
about the time
to leave;
They left,
probably all of them,
Left,
but not in one piece.
One winter morning,
Half a dozen guns
open fired at students,
bullets raced
into their bodies
faster than
they ever did
among themselves
and under the desk
wasn’t a proverb anymore,
It became the hiding place,
From the ugly man,
who shot their principal
and their friends.
A lesson learned;
A colour to fear
Red.

Somewhere in middle east,
a city smells of air strikes
and gunpowder
and bodies,
that used to be
alive.
A city,
Where children
5 years old
Won’t cry,
And it didn’t matter
how badly
they were hurt,
That their head bled
or their legs shattered,
they curled their lips
like the setting sun
but never uttered sounds
that screams
I am hurt.
A city
is afraid
of planes;
none made of paper.
A painter had never imagined
such destruction.
A doctor had never thought
that he will dissect a child’s hand,
Without numbing him and
without hearing him cry.
Somewhere in middle east,
A city is breathing destruction
and none has answered, why?

I was 6.
I was in class 6.
I was preparing for college,
in a closed room.
I was scrolling facebook.
I am far away from destruction,
Will probably,
forget about these
by tomorrow morning,
and get on a bus
with earphones plugged,
And a fanatic would open fire at us;
Newspapers would read the deaths,
Debates will end with regrets,
A candle march every year,
On some random date,
For some random people,
On some random place.

Fire burning bodies
that met their fate.
Grave hiding stories
which smell like hate.

©The Puzzle Maker