Bombed apartments lie open,
windows shattered, spears of
jagged glass, broken teeth
biting into vacancy.
Torn net curtains flap,
wave, signalling into emptiness.
No neighbours to spy on
No secrets to conceal.
In flattened playgrounds
twisted slides, slaughtered serpents,
still emblazoned in blue and yellow.
Swings sway in the freezing wind;
the haunting cry is heard
of dead children’s voices.
In ruined shopping malls
corpses clutch in frozen fingers,
plastic bags of untouched bread.
Cratered roads leave villages
names on maps, virtual destinations,
no more reachable than
Shangri-La or Camelot.
Stray dogs ravage the dead
Loose horses graze
in someone’s garden.
In a bombed-out cottage
an old woman cooks potatoes.
Behind her, two flower-papered walls,
half a cupboard, a china elephant,
the remnants of her bedroom, shown
on the evening news in Paris, New York, Delhi.
The village classroom,
a tangled mess of broken desks,
a single shoe, an open book,
a child’s sketch of a burning tank.
A boy crossing a pock-marked road,
automatically looks for traffic.
A ghostly line of phantom waggons
passes the unburied dead.
Stuck in muddy ditches, tank guns
point skywards at the rising moon.
A bomb explodes, a flash of red,
the dreadful beauty of instant flames.
In London, Washington, Moscow, Beijing,
they roll the dice, again.
Sarah Das Gupta
Sarah Das Gupta is an 82-year-old writer from Cambridge, UK, who has been writing since last year when an accident left her with very limited mobility. Her work has been published in many magazines and anthologies in over 25 countries, from New Zealand to Kazakhstan. This year, she has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Dwarf Star Award.
