A Roomful of Tragedy


Did your eyes not stop blinking, when you heard, did they not widen in horror?
Did your heart not start in alarm, did it not sink in despair?
Did it not shake the very core of your being?
Did you not feel hopeless, dejected, and utterly pitiful, for the society that you occupy?
Did it not puncture your every thought, always resting at the back, accusing you, egging you on, to step forward?
Did it not conjure vivid, grotesque images, disturbing your sleep?
Did it not absolutely boil your blood, infuriate you to hell?
How could you move on, he said, how could you listen, condemn, blame and move on?
A roomful of dead children, in a single day, a roomful of dead children.
A roomful of bright lives, simply ceased to exist, in heavy words like power play, politics and corruption.
A roomful of tragedy.
How could you, he asked again.
Because, she said, my mother turned the television off.
You have test in school tomorrow.
So go to sleep, she said.

Srishti Chaudhary

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