By: Debleena Majumdar
The crumpled sheet of paper,
Grease stains from yesterday’s
Stale chop that been thrown at her,
Was her treasure.
Wolfing down the hard lump, she
Had peered greedily at the paper.
Unmindful of the darkness,
If only she could read the words.
Acquamarine cocktails in hand,
They debated the breaking news.
“Refugee crisis, my foot!
All political games, I tell you.
And why kill a freethinking writer?”
Cutting short the debate,
Arrived the next course; lamp chops
On a bed of creamy mushroom sauce.
Words were his invisible sword.
Whose blood were they greasing
Their sweaty palms with?
What else would they deny
The children: a country, a home
Or just their mere childhood?
He felt them. Bloody hands choking
His words.What else would they kill?
Darkness at the refugee camp,
Didn’t choose an hour to knock.
It was always there, crouching.
The crumpled paper had a picture
Kind eyes, not the sort that would
Ask her to play those games in the dark.
There was an answer in those words,
She knew. If she could just find the light.