Smudge of Blood Here, this smudge of blood, Of a tender boy of eleven, Soaked thru the tarmac, Yet to be dried, still wet and warm! An innocent young lad, Fades-in my mind, Your bag! Your bag! Picking up a shopping bag, Shouting and chasing the biker, Who slings the bag into the crowd, And cruises at a high speed. Shouting repeatedly in vain, Albeit he ran a bit far away from the crowd, Your Bag! Your Bag! Still shouting... Oh! Sudden, the shopping bag explodes Shredding in to pieces, the poor boy. Scattering around his fresh flesh all over. "My son! " "My son! " The horror stricken mother gasps. Dreadfully aloud and running to the spot, Where her son has been ripped, Plight of the mother is tearful. Compassions and rancours surge up, Cries and sighs of the shocked crowd, aghast. Mother out of sense of mind, Insanely hasten gathering, Of her only beloved son's tender bod. Warm blood dripping fleshes, broken skul, Clasping to her bosom "Oh! My Son, My Son. ' Weeping and wailing with a grief uncontrollable, Caving into the pool of blood…sans...consciousness. Appalling brutality and the terror, Of evil minds, will get over when? Open your eyes, empathize, NO reward of Heaven, for shedding the innocent blood. NO reward of Heaven, for this distress of mothers. What remains is just this smudge of blood…