Creative Writing Featured — 31 May 2018
Our Kids, Their Kids

Picture Credit©AllahooWelfareSociety

 

Strong mist in the heart,
makes a mourning mother look
for her child.
Oh! the rosy cheeks she had,
the lips, dark as pomegranate seeds
Oh! the flurry of red that was her hair
Oh! where has she gone?
and all her smiles?
But there is a frown,
deception, hunger, thirst.
Find your child elsewhere.
They’re only bodies we know not worth living!
Wait!
Are they even kids?
They’re the thieves and beggars and garbage pickers,
we can’t stand them
them stink!
Lure your kids into drugs and stuff.
but they’re kids alright,
just not the nice ones!
The nice ones peek through their jaded windows,
looking into the well-tamed gardens
growing pomegranate trees,
and plums freshly plucked
before they rot,
and thrown down in the alley of filth,
where “those” kids live.
© Zeeba T. Hashmi

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