The shrill cries and high pitched chatter as they hurried to school.
Eager for what they’d learn today,
Eager to see their friends, smile, learn, run and play.
Loud chatter and last minute pranks that enraged the neighbours,
Were met with mischievous eyes, gleaming smiles and happy faces,
Full of stories and dreams that would take them to different places
We saw them off with a smile on our faces and a glow in our hearts,
Our little hopes. Our heeras (jewels). Even our trouble makers were jewels
But little did we know
that they all lay dead in deep red pools.
High pitched screams pierced the skies.
Echoes of wailing mothers’ cries
And fathers’ disbelief as they saw a sea of
Green ties and young, dull, dazed eyes.
Word had spread: bullets were sprayed.
Guns wielded by men driven mad with blood lust.
It’s easier to kill green ties than those in khaki clothes.
They marched their way in, open fired and left leaving limp little bodies lying in the dust.
Their bloodshot, cold calculating eyes searching for their next victim,
Emptying souls of life and filling them with cold metal shards
Our scratched and bloodied heeras: Fanaa.
Come back. Play your pranks and be noisy.
Smile. Laugh as loud as you want.
Play together in the streets again. Fill them with your beautiful, musical chatter.
Please come back. The silence is deafening,
And the only thing we now hear is the sound of our broken hearts.