Saturday, December 27, 2014

Ghosts


Those of you who do not stand here and see what I see, allow me to be your eyes and bear witness to the horror that lays ahead of me. Those of you who do not walk this fuming ashtray of shattered hearts and broken souls, allow me to be your feet.

The scene before me is a nightmare. The city is a graveyard. A sprawling necropolis marked by rundown debris and powdered concrete. Blocks of rubble and battered panels of granite vandalize the asphalt roads now sizzling like a hot pan of napalm and gunpowder.

Flowery plumes of torched yellow and orange shine like beacons of light through the billowing smoke belching from the after-burn of bombshells and mortar, the bewitching amber glow of the flames projecting a luminescent shadow unto the streets of fire enveloping the landscape within the grips of a ghastly aura of doom and despair.

A distant emergency siren sounds off somewhere amid the pandemonium, muffled by haunting screams of fear and anguish, pain and agony, lost in the tendrils of noxious fumes and lethal mist. These were the wails of the hapless widow, the voiceless orphan, the nameless mother of a crippled three-year-old, the faceless father of a dead son who just last week learned how to take his first footsteps clutching helplessly onto the fingers of his dad: his only source of solace, of hope, of peace and comfort – gone. A phantom. An apparition. A ghost.



— Fahim Ferdous Promi

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