Children of Fallujah

Come to hell,
come back once to smell
deadly white phosphorus
on the bank of Euphrates.

Your war on a whim
left us to sink or swim,
with deformed mouth,
intestines hanging out,
out of body,
half a head unshaped.

You clipped our wings,
busted childhood myths,
left stillborn siblings
to play with.

Still, echoes in ears
your triumphal buahaha.
Here we are
children of Fallujah
with vast cyclopean eye
waiting around to die.

Probal Basak, 31, an allumni of IIMC, New Delhi, India started his career as a journalist, who worked with Press Trust of India, Business Standard reporting mostly on socio-political issues. He now writes poems both in English and Bengali (mother tongue). Read other articles by Probal.