She came from the hills, eyewitnesses say,
A stick of a girl,
Clasping a sunken stillness around her shoulders
Walking limply towards the full crowd,
A hapless saint, certain to live out her journey.
That market day,
Soon all around her beamed with light and
A burst of spiritless bodies tossed in the air,
Spectators and the suffering stunned in mid-chaos of
Collapsed stalls, mangled parts and earth,
Spread crudely in blood and crushed fruit.
There was splitting screams, loud wailings and
The irreparable silence of a girl
Burnt to memory.
Later that day, the passive news reports
Full of muddled figures,
Bore little confirmation, conflating confusion and
The wretchedness of postmortem outrage.
Post image is an adaptation of a photograph by Surian Soosay via Flickr.
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