Blessed Surrender

The silence unnerves her
A once bustling boulevard
Thrash strewn amidst jostling crowd
Of whom there were none this day

Slowly she walks
Afraid of hearing her own shuffling
Past what was once, what, a tent?
A smoldering heap, charred tinder

At the centre of the stillness
A hulk of a steely monster stood, once arrogant
A mangled cage, trace echoes of scream
Of its occupants dying a lifetime of death

Pass the iron horror she trudges ahead
Directionless, willed only by the need to move
Somewhere, anywhere
Where there is a soul
Kindred or otherwise
A soul she ask a soul she seeks

Except for the hulking wreckage where she gagged a vomit
The air is pure is clean is sure
A sun soaked clarity of a surround
Alas there was only sight but not a single sound
Except for a rustling of wind ruffled debris
Other than a gust of strewn dust

A square, of tents in people pushed to the brink
Finding their voices found long subdued
Only to be mutedly strangled
Tyrannical hands of vile might

Soon is Ramadhan
Is it not she thinks?
A month for shackling of lust of pride of desires
A month of peace of penance of repentance
A month of endless joys in blessed surrender
Ten nights of fruitful embracing of faith

If only
There was someone
Anyone to welcome
A month so waited

She trudges
Wondering why there was no scent
When death was too many
Too plenty too heart rending

Perhaps its Syuhada then
She thinks
She walks
She ponders

Dedicated to the lives lost in for making their voices heard.