At the light-headed yawn of sun, around 7 am,
The winds gate crashed our snug small home,
And horrified amma pendulumed the prayer beads.
Long strings of blue ovals dropped bit by bit, like the eagle's fate.
As our window-pane started to sway giddily across the floor,
We went near and started to fiddle its despaired hinges.
Soon, our tawny brown, attention-seeker door signalled SOS,
Within five seconds of our visit, it cracked, like a glow stick.
The sky-high buildings collapsed like a flan in the cupboard:
Loud but poised; triggered but controlled.
The thudder of falling bricks knifed through the naked breasts of vilomahs.
There building collapsed, here collapsed their pulse
I held amma's frail, cold hands to move out of our half-destroyed house,
As we zig-zagged our way through the wreckage,
We saw two half-torn, bloody hands trapped under piles of rubble,
For the first time, I wanted to exchange debris for life
The edifice of our half-tinted hopes was now a concrete skeleton:
Rigid but without a spine. I was somehow still hopeful.
Amma was busy in a tête-à-tête with a three-year old child,
Who clapped when the broken pieces of bricks fell. ''It's raining'', he exclaimed.
We took the child with us and looked for valuables in the fragments of stones,
Hastily snatched a dusty, bloodstained gold chain from a severed neck.
The child looked at us in awe, mouth agape with disbelief.
I winked at the child and wiped the locket with my late father's handkerchief.
Fizza Abbas is a Freelance Content Writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. Her works have been published on more than 80 platforms including Poetry Village and Poetry Pacific. Her goal is to get published in 10,000 journals by the end of 2030. She can be reached @ fizzwrites on Twitter or YouTube https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZrZRCg9m_Nk5HR3MOkLfsA.