If only we had heard the ticks,
the quiet, silent ticking. That ticking
would set off a blast in history.
The lives turned to dust.
Flying parts of flesh,
charred and burnt.
Like wood under pressure
splinters to thousands of fragments.
Ticking slowly, the life
trickles like a tap unable to stop.
Ignited and heated the bomb goes
off among the people with happy faces.
Off amongst the children,
off amongst the families,
off amongst the parents,
off amongst the ones we loved.