By Manasa Narayanan

How far can these tiny feet walk?

On the land that spews blood

Where do these feet stop?

Where is home?

Is it the land that betrayed them?

Is it the land that did not welcome them?

Is it the make-shift tent then?

Is that their place?

No home for humanity?


I walk long

for a long-long time

Apparently not long enough

What is it that we do, I keep asking myself?

I have no answers


What is it we do?

When houses burn?

When children despair?

All we seem to do is destroy,

plunder and uproot

profit from pain and suffering

The child is crying outside the burning house

while a stone statue is built.

Voices in the wind

I hear things

things that aren’t there –

children’s voices.

It echoes wherever I go

but isn’t there.

An illusion, or delusion.

Where can voices come from when there are no throats?

There are no children

but I seem to hear them

Their voices, like the wind

that carries all the poison we’ve created

They keep reminding – you killed the air and it killed us.

Display picture by Jordan Whitt