Caress the disfigured syllables gently,
a rain of bullets should not deprive
them from a veil of modesty.
I stand near the tombstones of shadows
in a graveyard of light; seeing voiceless gods
smile from broken mirrors.
Did they bleed faith? I cared not to check.
A delusional existence gone too far-that brought
men raging with guns and children whimpering
in terror together, in a room.
While both of them prayed silently
accepting their unfulfilled destiny.
© Shashank Bhardwaj