The poor city bathed in blood
each drop in the name of one god or another
aftermath of a violent, destructive
and inhuman storm.
His mum, his dad, both are gone.
Are they dead? He does not know.
Home, he seizes the small statues,
once a cherished gift from them,
now they enrage him; they stand
so placid and silent on bookshelves
and table tops they seem out of place.
Decapitated heads, amputated arms
and severed legs crash in all directions
in splashes of marble, stone and porcelain.
Explosive red flares before his eyes
equalising the street scenes.
This is what he sees the rest of his life.