The Bleeding Dove by Shweta Prasad
As vivid as a painted canvas.
The gentle breeze-
that rustled the leaves,
which danced with the echoing chirps.
as it fell on the hopscotch 6!
I went hopping all the way,
as she waited for me to lose.
It was then that our mother called us.
with the cluttered coins mother gave me.
People looked morose;
with their baskets empty.
My little sister would smile at them,
Unaware of the war.
swaying our hands,
we walked past the rabble.
I looked down at her.
Her cheeks as pink as the lips of the sea-shell,
her eyes as black as a starless night,
her giggle as cute as the ribbons in her hair,
as she gazed up,
the big sister in me held her close.
pointing at the broken display.
She pulled my frock,
but I denied.
She broke our entwined fingers,
dashing off with crossed arms across her chest.
but diverted by a reflection.
Like a sun drop,
falling from the sky.
Silence ruled the lane,
as people contemplated.
A refulgent wave hit my eyes.
was it mine or someone else’s blood I was drenched in?
Alongside the lake of blood was-
black and red faceless corpses.
I frantically searched for her!
I dragged myself,
as tears trickled down with blood.
I found her.
soused bright red.
Her cheeks as pale as ashes,
her body as cold as the grave.
I held and kissed her little forehead,
lost at a sea of nihility.
I felt helpless and confused.
Cursing the blood-soaked dove,
Embracing her close to my heart where-
She remains Eternal..