By Pooja Jaswal
In the kitchen, his mother toiled,
With sparse groceries, her struggle foiled.
Not enough to feed an ant's plea,
Yet she persevered, her love set free.
Beneath a dim, flickering light,
She stirred a pot, her only respite.
Her worn hands moved with grace and care,
Though worry etched lines, her state rare.
Suddenly, thunderous roars resound,
Millions of bullets in one profound.
Ignoring it as just a storm's roar,
Until their roof blew, shattered to the floor.
Luxurious walls, comforting embrace,
Now rubble, no longer a safe space.
In the blink of an eye, ruins surround,
Their once cherished home, now unbound.
Mother and son, hearts racing fast,
Out they fled, the die was cast.
Through the chaos, they roamed,
A landscape of destruction, they roamed.
No soul in sight, only despair,
A phone booth, a relic, stood there.
Dialing for help, the line was busy,
A city attacked, lives left dizzy.
With a thud, she fell, lifeless sight,
Still cradling her son, tight.
He thought it a game, a childish ruse,
Till they tore them apart, a cruel abuse.
Glass shards embedded, a brutal fate,
Reality struck, too little, too late.
War's savage deed, power's cruel quest,
Families shattered, hearts unrest.
Decades pass, scars remain,
Children born with suffering's stain.
Do we truly grasp their plight?
In the shadows, they fight the fight.
Amidst the wreckage, hope may wane,
And in the ashes, despair remains.
For in the core of every shattered dream,
Lies the pain of what might have been.