The flowers in the vase were still ruby red;
the leaves and thorns still undead.
A beautiful thing it may have seemed,
if it weren’t for the silence ahead.
Paintings on the wall did, some story, say
of old country sides, cows, fields and plenty hay.
A beautiful thing it may have seemed,
had someone cared to see and stay.
A lovely evening festooned the sky.
Hues unknown streaked up high.
A beautiful thing it may have seemed,
but they, beneath, couldn’t see why.
Busy at plenty them puppets were.
Sad faces, tears and pristine black fur.
A dreadful thing it is, for them.
The loss of someone as pure as her.
She was, but ten, such a young soul!
Still, was death right? Even for one old?
A dreadful thing it is, for them.
Them, standing out in the night so cold.
A fire, a blast, few seconds does it last.
It rips and kills and leaves all aghast.
A dreadful thing it is for them,
who live in the shadows the dead cast.
They, who cried, did they not know?
Who killed her, and what be they sow?
A dreadful thing it is, for them
In a cruel world, how do children grow?
But to do a thing, would they dare?
To stop all terror, did they care?
A dreadful thing it is, for them,
Yet what do they do but to stand and stare.
We cry, we mourn, we grieve, we pain.
We do, not a thing and all is in vain.
A dreadful thing it may have seemed.
But who gave a thought? Who was left so sane?
Contributed by Divya Mulanjur, PGDM 2012-14 student at SPJIMR, Mumbai.
