In Memory
I knew a woman once
She died every year
On Basant
This is her story
One Basant, she dressed her son
In finest clothes
They were to visit his grandma
That day
When he was ready,
They got on a motorbike
With his Papa
He loved it
And on the way she thought of
Trivial things
Didn't know she should have
Embraced him in those
Final momentsĀ
Looked down because
Her hands felt damp
Her hands were red
With her son's blood
His throat was slit
He was dead
Gone
No one heard her screams
Above the shouts of the
Kite-flyers
1
0
0