“It was morning again,
But the courtyard was quiet;
The child did not play,
No one drew water at the well;
The hut’s door was open and wide,
And behind it in the fields lay,
The dead body of the mother and child;
Their faces turned up to the sky,
The child clinging to the mother,
As if in a final supplicating cry;
Did we kill you;
O mother, O child?
We who pontificate;
From confines of comfort,
Always do adjudicate;
We who profess high beliefs,
But run away at slightest risk;
Did we kill you;
O mother, O child?
We who chorus and drone,
From our shelters hidden unknown,
Did we kill you;
O mother, O child?”
sanjaykumarsinghblog 