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When a child wakes with the morning gold in this land, his mouthprays, rebels against bloodstained news from perching on thetwig of his ears, dirges from becoming a classical song on thelips of everything he encounters that day, blood from smearingthe walls of naive houses that always remain a graveyardas ravenous bullets unleashed by minds devoid of empathyfeast through the chest of their inhabitants.A mother— phenomenal canary on the tamarack of compassion— sitsby a weary wooden door in front of her bungalow, pining, munching prayersin her mouth like hot yam for her daughter's safe return, with fane undesecrated,