.

 Young enough to believe everything, we are  stroking the yellow wings of dead butterflies: two pairs of blue coloured lungs echoing syllables of a distant memory.

The summer evening while pomegranates kissed dates on iftar, we were holding our beads close to our chests.

The angels were on a picnic while devils whispered in their ears about the things we forgot to consider. 

We crushed cherry coloured streets sleeping under the blanket of sweet smelled jalebis under our shoes trying to find a place to hide when we heard songs in the ragas of anger from the saffron coloured mob. 

Our wounds were big enough like our clogged throats when they asked as to apologize for all the prayers we uttered.

They scrubbed our skins in chants we never knew while we offered a jar of honey colored nausea to the God our mother introduced us. 

He was silent may be because they killed him first, calling an unworthy deity.

The sunflower field were burnt and our father camouflaged into fire.

We saw our altars painted in strokes of ash with the pretty curly hair of our nieces.

The cunning foxes danced on our dining hall spilling hate from tea cups they borrowed.

The priests were searching for hymns trying to believe that this is just worry death. 

Our aunts were mutilated, their unborn children missing the picnics in green meadows of valley.

Our uncles were thrown into oceans, but they couldn't swim for their hands were cut and fed to stray dogs.

Our sister was not killed, but was erased, her name turning to victim. 

The chimneys were not broad enough to carry the last breath of our mothers and the windows had curtains that kept the tears of out grandmother as a prisoner.

We were not crying since they were playing marbles with our eyes.