Boston Terror Bomb Blasts
Art of the macabre.
Fresh warm beating hearts shred alive.
Raw, hideous, feast - luncheon of the cannibals.
A son diced, A daughter minced.
A mother boiled, a Father pit roasted.
Spouse cut into julians,
Children? Eaten fresh, on salads as toppings.
They must have tasted sweet, and nicely sour,
Like red cherries with fresh cream of their innocence.
Dressing of crocodile tears.
Decoration of plastic flowers, ghoulish teary ceremonies.
Ambience made ethereal by banal statements,
Room full of blood curdling cold laughter,
Coming from some slaughter house of insanity.
Coming from a place without understanding, without religion.
Without love, without poetry.
My fellow Americans,
We Indians mourn and bleed with you.
Hardik Vaidya's Other Poems
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