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
Yakapin 