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I hid to never emerge The snow in my lawn isn't white. It is rusty like the color of my flowerpot. “Papa, can I go out and make a snowman?” howls my son. I say no, and then say it in CAPITAL letters so he can understand. We have been raided twice this week, and feeble infant minds still cannot tell winter-magic from martial law. I was a kid once. Back in those days, the lakes used to be placid, and filled with boats ornate and vivid. Now, the wind howls a million mother's cries as new wombs are laced with sulfur and hatred. I have seen brains splattered on the streets, and I have seen a city bleed to death on that very day. Bayonets shine brilliantly when the mountain sun shines bright. It is but a foolish star branded a messiah, a savior from numbness. But our souls are frozen. There's no warmth that can bring back those who one day went to play and never returned. Like cave rats, I've dug a hole for myself and disappeared from naked eyes. My son is foolish. He paints valleys in green and love in red. I know the real color. Everything. The color of burning bullets, The color of dried up blood, The color of welled up sadness, The color of mass graves, brown.

Suvojit Banerjee Thirty West Publishing House thirtywestph.com

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Philadelphia, PA © 2016 Thirty West

I hid to never emerge  
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