The woods stand tall,
Cloaked in darkness, uninviting.
As you walk along the cliffs,
Hesitating, your courage withering.
Tree branches act as filters,
To the moonshine, so bright.
Your guilt rushes up towards you,
Gone is the comfort, it provides.
Some distance ahead you see,
Two white crosses, sticking out.
Nothing special, nothing remarkable.
Two hasty graves, forgotten about.
The graves stare at you.
You stare back at the graves.
The soil is still soft, still moist.
You fall to the ground, sobbing in waves.
Sudden fervor grips you.
You start digging with bare hands.
You must see! Atleast once you must see.
Dig! Dig! Your brain commands.
Pink blankets softly wrapped
Around a child, once soft and alive.
Maybe someone’s daughter, maybe someone’s niece,
You too had a daughter. Where is she now?
She had no one.
She needed someone.
Anyone.
So you run. And so you run…
Hers weren’t the first tears,
Nor were they the last.
That the woods will ever see,
Or have seen in the past.
