A man lays on the floor of a roofless room,
Red liquid spills from his chest like a thousand roses in bloom.
He can no longer hear the laughter of the neighbours kids as they played their games,
Nor can he hear their mother calling their names.
He can however, hear the stomping feet,
Of murderous men marching in the street.
He could hear the humming of drones,
He could hear the shrieking sand and the screaming stones.
There was a time when he found the kids laughter troublesome and absurd,
But now, as his blood fell like petals from a dying rose,
As he lay helpless on the ground,
He wished the soundtrack of his death was a peaceful sound.
Nasirah Kathrada.
