by Olivia Chohan '20
On May 22nd you grew two feathery wings.
We were clueless, far away, safe, dry.
There were seeds of hope but they were never planted,
because they were shadowed by a tree of worry.
Instead of black, I stood in pink.
Some days I want to bury myself in sand,
Or to climb a tree and never come down.
All man has is hand and foot;
a heart of granite, tears like the Ganges.
We are small.
What gets burnt does not grow back.