As she lies bleeding,
the girl who skipped and hopped to school.
All of nine and a half years old,
with ribbons in her hair and a laugh that was
her father’s pride.
As she lies bleeding,
the warm bullet lodged in her torn stomach,
she stares at her skipping rope,
as her blood soaks it the colour of the cherries her mummy buys.
As she lies bleeding,
she sees the people through the thick black smoke.
Blurred visions of scattering feet and shoes left behind.
Hearing nothing but the pinging in her blown-out eardrums.
As she lies bleeding,
she slips away quickly and then she is dead.
A mangled heap of a nine and a half year old girl
whose laugh was her father’s pride.
As she lies bleeding,
for even in death she bleeds some more.
The warm bullet wedged in her torn stomach,
steals the light from her bright little eyes.
As she lies bleeding,
in Jallianwala Bagh in ’19,
Leningrad in ’42,
Freetown in ’98,
Soweto in ’76,
Jenin in ’02,
Hanoi in ’68,
Beirut in ’85,
Kabul now,
Basra still,
Homs too,
As she lies bleeding,
this little nine and a half year old girl
whose laugh was her father’s pride.
We know she’ll bleed and bleed some more.
Tomorrow and in many tomorrows yet unborn.
With that warm bullet in her stomach,
ripped open and torn.
As she lies bleeding.
–Afzal Moolla