In the night sky and
The kid who knows about
The shooting stars makes
Wishes.
He wishes for more and
More toys.
And after each bomb,
The children who survive,
Run from one end of the city
To the other in search
Of their wishes from
The previous night-
An unlimited supply of
Toys in the form of
Empty shells- Only to
Fight over better variants-
The ones with a tinge of red
Over the soot-loaded
Blackened scraps- it could
Have been the blood of
One of their parents.
But it doesn't matter,
I guess.
When the streets are washed
In blood and hunger goes
Beyond stomach and gets
To ones head.
Crimson becomes another
Shade of red and for
The children without a home,
It's just paint.
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