What of the children that died,
when bombs went off while they slept?
What of the mothers that lived,
to bury their corpses while they wept?
What of the rulers who sat,
on their chairs, pointing fingers?
What of the ones who cower in boardrooms,
while death and tragedy still linger?
What of the fathers that survived,
the desolation of their lives?
What of the soldiers that still have no clue,
of the death of their daughters and wives?
What of the lovers that watched,
their mates writhe in pain?
What of these lives that were lost or shattered,
while I sat here writing of rain?
By: Viraj Belgaonkar