RAYAPOSITORY

  This isn’t something I could stomach writing about until now. Yet the genocide(s) is/are making several nations lose theirs. First it was one. Then two. Three. Now they sit at millions. Millions being starved, millions becoming living remains, a shell of their previous life before the unlit chasm succumbs them entirely. It ricochets a merry tune of heaven, where the sun isn’t unyielding, the fruits tug the branches in its fullness, and the daffodils  mischievously  dare them to come play. I think this is what heaven looks like. Flowers, fruits and a shining star. I think this is what people in Palestine, Sudan, Congo and many other unspoken of, shrouded, unheard of think so. They beseech, their knees greet the ground in an intensity which outcries thunderbolts from hell. All they need is to eat. They don’t want to get eaten. By the demons which crawl their conscience. Dig their tepid, tainted fingers and relishes the crimson which treads down their arms before they grow...

She woke up to the blaring sound of explosives and the tumbling of a building nearby.  Hamza’s eyes opened briskly before she sat herself on her makeshift bed, viewing for her family deep in slumber, perceiving the sound of their breathing. All of them are alive, and awake with a sense of trepidation and worry glossing their eyes, gazing back at her. “Hamza,” She failed to perceive her mother getting up and tenderly nudging her, as she tethered herself to reality she was distortedly unaligned with another cacophony emanating from the explosives.  “Ammi,” She voiced shakily, as her hands turned clammy from the impending death which might discover her. Her family. “We’re going to be okay,” Her mother tenderly embraces her, as Hamza’s hands twirled into fists, attempting to inject a vial of reassurance which is her mother’s words. “They’re bombing far away from us,” Her mother voiced as Hamza felt her father bringing in water for them, having awoken from the sounds which ran anxi...