The little baby cries for food,
But the young one knows not
Her father would have, if he could,
Bought her bread with curry, steaming hot.
And the artist sheds tears,
Each teardrop housing deep sorrow
Every paint stroke echoes her fears,
Of her loved ones that heaven might borrow.
The scholar writes stories of yore,
Even as the bombs erode hope
He fills hundreds of pages and more,
Through that truth, he seeks to cope.
And then we see the heart-wrenching tale,
Of an elder brother forced to grow
As life is snatched, turning his mother pale,
He holds his baby brother close, even as the tears flow.
This is what the world's mirror shows,
Despite the hastily painted varnish coat
As the pandemic of apathy grows,
And hearts filled with hate bloat.

YOU ARE READING
A budding writer's collection
PoetryJust a bunch of poems written as and when I feel to write them