The Children

Death my friend, is nothing to fear,
God has his picks, lot of stories to hear.
When the clock struck twelve,
The battle was won.
There lay a mother,
Weeping for her son.
Separated by a boundary.
She wept and wept.
Oh show she reminisced the days when her children got along.
Loved each other, laughed together.
They were those days,
When the line hadn’t been drawn,
And the meadows were euphoric.
Where the birds chirped,
And children played together,
And prayed together.
They just co-existed.
Then dawned a day.
When the mother woke up with a jolt, a searing pain it was,
A pain she couldn’t describe, a jagged, evil crack.
The mother’s mellow heart wept.
Wept to see her son walk away.
She cried, and shouted out, tried to hold on,
But he just walked on.
The face he shun away, tears streaming down.
The danger had been high.
But the morale went higher.
Beneath the gracious butterfly,
God made everyone a fighter.
Decades might have passed,
And the mother might be in heaven.
But this my friend, is the tale of 1947

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