Click.
Damn, my camera flash is broken. The smell, rancid and musty, pervades the air. The smell of struggles and surrender,
Of drugged delusions and tortured souls,
Of blood and fear, of rot, rags and rape, of love and life deadening
And a hunger, that burns, unquenchable and persistent.
Twenty-one huddle in a corner, some alive, some dead, whimpering and murmuring, lice-ridden, rats-driven, their sunken eyes shining, with chains around their feet. all to be sold the next day at the markets.
Not as children. Not as humans. As slaves.
For even the birds fly free and bathe in the sunlight, But these – the world throws away.
Innocence lost through the alcoholic violence, the narcotic fantasies and the carnal demands in this Underworld of humanity,
And all I have is a photograph in the dark.
Click.
Damn, my camera flash is broken. The cacophony of war envelops them. The sounds of gore, grit and grim, of raucous, rage and terror,
Of trivial heroism, and an intense and misplaced fury
Of thunderous bomb shells, which tears the Earth in tremor.
Five navigate through crossfire, treading nimbly between heaven and hell. The symbols of bravery, bound by duty,
They fought for a freedom, which lay like a faraway dream.
In the throes of the future.
Suddenly, one man down. The leader mutters a quick prayer and orders all to move on. Nothing can be done to save.
The man’s life leaks out and mixes with the grime, the sweat, the shrapnel and regret.
Fleeting flashes of his family and brief moments of epiphany,
Trickles down to the sandy grains of Afghanistan,
staining with crimson red.
And all I have is a photograph in the dark.
Click.
The city life bustles around me
And I am back in the world of wealth and luxury,
Of drab politics and bureaucracy, of entertainment and reality tv.
Of fancy cars, Starbucks, iphones and where the bigger is better.
Of tiny little offices packed with tiny little people absorbed in their tiny little worlds with their tiny little thoughts.
They are smiling. They are happy and yet,
It is never enough. It is the age of the “Me”.
How can they be so blind to not see the blood that lay upon the streets?
How can they be so deaf to not hear the cries of that godforsaken night?
How can they demand for more entitlement and more privilege when they have already won the cruel lottery of life?
As these people go about their lives, in their comfort and abundance
and although the sunlight streams through the city park,
All I see are photographs, photographs in the dark.