By Manasa Narayanan
How far can these tiny feet walk?
On the land that spews blood
Where do these feet stop?
Where is home?
Is it the land that betrayed them?
Is it the land that did not welcome them?
Is it the make-shift tent then?
Is that their place?
No home for humanity?
---
Stone
I walk long
for a long-long time
Apparently not long enough
What is it that we do, I keep asking myself?
I have no answers
yet.
What is it we do?
When houses burn?
When children despair?
All we seem to do is destroy,
plunder and uproot
profit from pain and suffering
The child is crying outside the burning house
while a stone statue is built.
---
Voices in the wind
I hear things
things that aren’t there -
children’s voices.
It echoes wherever I go
but isn’t there.
An illusion, or delusion.
Where can voices come from when there are no throats?
There are no children
but I seem to hear them
Their voices, like the wind
that carries all the poison we’ve created
They keep reminding - you killed the air and it killed us.
Display picture by Jordan Whitt