Yakapin

As tiny bits of red petals fill the empty jars

The air fills up with the stench of yesterday’s death

With the crowd quickly crowding above the town

Children start going out of their little boxes

Pushing their way up the slopes of deserted land

They step cautiously with their mouths shut

Their tiny feet soak with the blackish mud

They scan the place left in the aftermath

As one by one they see familiar colors of the past

They rush with quiet steps towards the pile

A glimmer of blue, yellow, and blue pop up

Yet they are all touched by the red spots

Others got a bit darker now after the first blow

But the children didn’t know as they poked the colors

“Mama?,” one of the little children said

“Papa?,” the others call from the far left