This week,
somewhere in Pakistan
a bomb exploded
leaving a trail of
melted toys and severed limbs
– ripping apart lives and
splintering souls,
painting the horizon
a violent red.

While I cursed
a too-slow computer
people mutely watched
three men on a beach
beat a boy.
They watched as his
thin arms
were raised in plea
and still watched as
the blue-grey waters
claimed him for their own
(they said
he was mentally unsound.
As if that changed
anything at all)

A train has derailed elsewhere.
Bodies trapped
in mangled metal,
the pungent smell of charred flesh
pervading the air
as a sari
blotted with blood
quivers in the breeze.

Over the sound
of a fan whirring,
Louis Armstrong croons
of rainbows and red roses,
and tells me that
we live in a wonderful world.


First, the cacophony of sirens. Go downstairs. Turn on the TV.

A battered bus. Misshapen metal. Shards of glass which crunch under the boots of khaki clad policemen. Distant voices of army personnel, shooing the swarm of people peeping over the yellow tape. Necks craning, eager for a glimpse. My mum flinches at the slow trickle of blood, forming red rivulets on the roadside. Fist stuffed in her mouth, she doesn’t notice that her cup of oats is dripping, forming white pools of their own.

The scene changes swiftly.

A mass of attendants dressed in crisp white. One surreptitiously pats his hair, preening at the cameraman, enjoying his 2 seconds of fame. Another blusters around, ordering people here and there, the corner of his eye fixed firmly on the revolving camera. An ambulance drives in. Dozens of hands reach out for the door. Blood spattered and dazed, a lady is lifted and laid on a stretcher. More tumble out. The interior of the hospital is shown. Vesak decorations and colourful streamers still adorn the ceiling: a stark contrast to the dismal scene.

Visuals of the explosion are shown again.

The blood still drips from the foot board. Deliberately slow

Will this ever end?