A little boy sat upon the ground

That painted him with shades of monsoon

And the sky was its usual vast self

With hopes in the hands of self-made foes

Then he saw a sparkle above,

That dragged the shine along, across the sky

It was the first shooting star he'd seen,

He'd been told they vanish as quick as smiles

He stood up with trousers wet of dew,

The suppressed grass stood up (unlike many)

A new hope flourished, like clouds for drought

'Peace' he cried, three times with equal passion,

Peace there was but not a peaceful peace,

If silence was peace- for silence is often violent,

It was an unpeaceful peace, unnerving peace

And the things told to him turned false

The shooting star wasn't short lived like smiles,

Instead it persisted like tears,

It grew with each second- like sadness,

Until the little boy realised

It was shooting but it was not a star

But it was to kill stars, with or without dreams,

With or without hopes, with or without life,

The blinding light proved the world was blind indeed

It wasn't a shooting star that fulfilled wishes,

It was a weapon that destroyed them,

A weapon made with concentrated hate

With unholy powers to change the world's fate....

~Ajay
7-9-17