Limbs torn, <br />Art of the macabre. <br />Fresh warm beating hearts shred alive. <br />Raw, hideous, feast - luncheon of the cannibals. <br />A son diced, A daughter minced. <br />A mother boiled, a Father pit roasted. <br />Spouse cut into julians, <br />Children? Eaten fresh, on salads as toppings. <br />They must have tasted sweet, and nicely sour, <br />Like red cherries with fresh cream of their innocence. <br />Dressing of crocodile tears. <br />Decoration of plastic flowers, ghoulish teary ceremonies. <br />Ambience made ethereal by banal statements, <br />Room full of blood curdling cold laughter, <br />Coming from some slaughter house of insanity. <br />Coming from a place without understanding, without religion. <br />Without love, without poetry. <br />My fellow Americans, <br />We Indians mourn and bleed with you.<br /><br />Hardik Vaidya<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/boston-terror-bomb-blasts/
