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.
