Armpit Evidence

A sudden rush to the hospital

With eyes blurred after the bomb blast

In the midst of burnt and torn bodies

In an urgent search of his little son.

Little son, he tries to remember,

Out of the left over memories,

When he last dropped him at church

Was in blue shirt and white pants.

The agonised father,

With hands on forehead and beating his chest,

First with whispers of trembling,

Searches for his loving son among the wounded.

Unable to find him within the living,

Not to be seen around the survived,

He runs all the way to the corridors of death,

Where unidentifiable burnt bodies lie

With no liquid blood to ooze,

And no shame in being naked,

As their clothes and skin have intertwined.

"Mahane, enda mahane, engadaa nee?"

The loud cry of this father

Reached the ends of the human landscapes of sorrow.

His fatherly eyes have noticed something unique.

With body now trembling with terror,

The hands nearby had to hold him.

With a weakening heart that froze for a moment,

He was silenced by a sight for a second;

The sight that brought in a clue within him.

The entire crowd around him lost breath.

With his hands he pointed,

Asking someone to lift the right hand

Of the fully burnt little body lying in the middle.

As they did as he signalled,

And as that little dead right hand was lifted,

The little armpit,

The only unincinerated part of the body,

Displayed that small piece of cloth in blue,

The only evidence to testify,

Which had found refuge inside this space

From the inflammable blast that left

Only ashes and burnt flesh to claim.