Paris is burning,

The flames devour the Notre Dame,

As though hungry for a feast

they have long since been denied,

The smoke

fills the air

as though signalling disaster.

A foreshadowing of horrors,

Yet to come.

Less than a week later,

Sri Lanka is bleeding,

It's wounds seep into every

Crack and crevice

Of every still beating heart,

As loved ones,

Men, women, and children,

Lay lifeless.

Their bodies littering the streets.

A round of bullets,

Scattered around a place of holy worship.

A statue of Jesus stained with blood,

There's no poetry in this.

Just chaos.

Just empty silence,

Where laughter should be.

Money falls,

From the pockets of the rich,

as they pour out gold

To reclaim the beauty of history,


In the present,

Sri Lanka is screaming,

it's children, being buried.

And the coins,


Go dry,

As though the rich have run of out of gold,

Or empathy.

I wonder,

Would you still want to resurrect the dead,

If the spine that fell,

Had been crafted

From the bones

Of the children gone.

I wonder,

Why you don't relinquish,

Your riches,

To ease the suffering,

Of those still breathing.

How can the richest people alive,

Focus on the flames of one building,

When all around them,

The world is on fire.

There is no poetry here,

Just souls swept up in sadness,

Silence turned to rage,

Because maybe,

If I give you a mouthful of flames,

You might actually start paying attention.


Paris is burning.

Sri Lanka is bleeding.

And I am tired of watching the world burn.