By Sarvath Shetty
Voices like thunder, caught in the storm,
A child was born between love unformed,
Her smile hidden, her voice too low,
Maybe it was a treasure stolen by the storm’s echo.
Vessels bang and a little heart beats faster,
Her eyes glazed, absorbing the disaster,
Throttled with fear, gasping for air,
Why can’t they see, this is more than she can bear.
La famiglia è tutto, the Italians would say,
Family means everything, how nescient and cliché,
For if it did, then “Oh the dismay!”,
She would have nothing, nothing to say.
Bludgeoned by the words that hit like lashes,
Just like a phoenix, she rose from the ashes,
Reborn now, with a nature apathetic,
Emotions now were only cosmetic.
Stoic in character and blunt in words,
She now preferred eagles, not love birds,
From ruins of the war, she built an armour,
Not even words of love could now disarm her.
In the field of battle grew this warrior,
Where both armies, only grew saltier,
And now upon odd moments of ceasefire,
War is declared by this child of the crossfire.