The flowers dry, the candles burn;
both reach their ends. The world still turns.
The streets are full, the café chat
is about revenge, tit for tat,
air-strikes, mortal wounds, ground combat.
I cannot take in any of that.
I only know she won’t return.
Although each time the doorbell rings
my heart leaps once, instantly sings
then recalls the days before.
She’ll never be back at my door.
The talk is thick with migrants; war;
how exactly to settle the score.
But I can’t relate to those things.
There must be justice, and a stern
reprimand, offenders must learn
how strong we stand, crime never pays.
The news channels are choked for days
with some or other leader’s speech-haze,
clips gone viral, constant replays,
rehashing the current concern.
I just know that flowers dry rough
that candles aren’t warm enough.
I just know that my room’s gone cold,
my heart is shrivelled and grown old;
she’ll never again cross this threshold
whatever events might unfold.That’s my truth, the rest’s just stuff.
For all the families - in Nigeria, in Egypt, in India, and in France and elsewhere in the world, who have lost loved ones to terrorism.