My child fell here….

This poem depicts a mother who lost her little girl during a bombing in Syria. We see her carrying some mushroom,the favourite dish of her child,to the place where her child was torn into pieces.

Dada, we still cry…

It’s been long, we’re no more strong ‘Cause you’re gone, our hearts are worn Dada, we still cry, our eyes never dry This our loss, is so painful a cross. Bhabi still bakes, your favourite cakes Prishu still waits, for you at gates Life can’t retreat, but we repeat We wait your greeting, at heaven’s…