A poem is coming;
oozing through a tiny opening
of the block —
a bullet hole
from the left to the right hemisphere
in the skull of this Waziristan child.
A poem is coming
wrapped in a blood-stained sheet
upheld in a charpoy
over the shoulders of the bereaved
of a drone strike;
screaming to be heard,
staggering under crimson curlicues,
intruding onto the blank peace,
of your apathy.