Collateral Damage

There’s a child’s doll on the stones

 By the ashes of the fire

Broken, limbs dangling. Where is the child,

You ask, and look away, Wondering, perhaps

Then turn back, looking once again.

It is not a doll.

And the father on his hands and knees, scrabbling in the dirt

Isn’t an extra in a movie, paid to grovel and cry.

The tears are real, the blood is real

And the dead children really die.

And only the flies remain, buzzing

Their buzz, and another buzz,

Overhead.

And you hear a voice saying

This is the good war,

This is the price of freedom

And perhaps you hear voices saying

It’s very sad, but such things must be.

After all, these people have beards, wear turbans

The women cover their faces

And you can't understand what they're saying

Maybe they don't really mind dying

As much as real people do.

Perhaps the child’s father, a military-age-male

Was a potential terrorist, and hence a target

And it was unfortunate that the child was close by

But such things happen.

War is hell.

Or perhaps

The child might have become a terrorist

If she had been allowed to breathe and speak

If sh had been allowed to live and grow.

These voices are persuasive

They belong to people who wear suits

Who speak superb English

And who are on TV.

They represent enlightened values

Freedom and Democracy.

So don't worry. Don't lose sleep.

It's really all right after all.

Copyright B Purkayastha 2012