A protest poem by Sehar about the bloodstained kurta of a father with the blood of 13-year-old son.
Race against needles of the clock and fainting heartbeats of a thirteen-year- old covered in
His white kurta still smells of his son’s blood, as they lay the mortal remains to rest.
The other day the son drew a sketch of a peaceful valley.
Who knew his dreams would end so soon
Who knew his chirpy voice would be silenced by violence so soon
Alas! Who knew that a father’s most prized possession would now be a blood stained kurta.
©Sehar Siddiqui ‘Zulekha’
Pix from Net.
Latest posts by Sehar Siddiqi (see all)
- Blood of my Son - August 4, 2016
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- Shaping Minds for the new Millennium - February 29, 2016