The Photograph

A fierce battle on a war-torn land…

Without a single weapon in hand…

It’s a battle of words, a battle of negotiation…

A battle of adamant innocence against journalistic creation…

As little Faizaan brushes the dust of rubble kissing his cheeks…

The journalist paints him darker, making all his tweaks…

For the perfect shot of Faizaan, the poster boy of war…

Crafting the journalist, a piece of work people would adore…

As they silently shut their eyes upon the colossal number of kills…

A little boy stood concealing remnants of humanity in his pupils…

He blinks once out of fear and he loses his identity…

He blinks again out of disbelief and he is just another entity…

A natural entity in the chains of man-made crime…

A prisoner in his homeland, serving his time…

For a crime he didn’t commit but held a debt of survival…

With a sliver of losing hope, waiting for peace’s arrival…

And as Faizaan blinked to the sound of the journalist’s click…

Rhythmically in unison, a whimsical trick…

The journalist struggled to convince Faizaan to look sad…

As he dealt with a war-victim but an equally smiling lad…

The journalist frowns, as he sees his promotion slipping…

But Faizaan’s dusky cheeks won’t stop gripping…

His smile that graced his blood-painted lips…

As the journalist frustrated, went through all his snips…

And then Faizaan asked a question, innocence in his question…

Sending a chill down the journalist’s spine with his small confession…

As peace sobbed to the consequences for war all this while…

Faizaan asked, “How will my missing mother recognize me without my smile?”

And when he was eventually laid to rest with sobs of suffering reality…

Even heaven smiled to welcome a victim of failed humanity…