The sounds of heavy gunfire.
It is called  history,
another name for blood 
a lot of it,
like synonyms.
For all of them who died,
an altar at  the Cantonment.
The lepers  there in the dark 
let the flies feast on their flesh.
The blood flows
Of children
Who still think they are in school

At the  mosque, backyards.
All that blood is festival.
For all the corpses  burnt  together
an altar in the Cantonment.

Someone’s saying prayers
for someone 
who need not have died.

There would have been no need
for this funeral.
Here in the Cantonment 
It is nearing midnight.

The gods come out of the lit temple, 
the mosque, and the church.
It has been 
Some time. 
They now wish to hear 
A new born child cry.