The Postcard

It has been a few weeks that A dirt smudged postcard with bad handwriting Sitting in his shirt pocket. Wherever the young man goes The postcard goes with him. The incorrectly spelt and awfully worded letter falls asleep Close to the young man's chest With its smell of village flowers, Creepers and mimosa shrubs And the soft rippling sound of water On the edge of the pond. The postcard from his sister perturbs him at times. The unemployed youth Is helpless to support the family Without a patriarch. He stays out of harm's way and keeps a very little involvement. None has ever seen him in any political meetings or processions. He has rather been searching for a job relentlessly. Hunger and deep sighs are his constant companions. Yet, on a terrified noon, His chest was pierced by a sudden bullet. The youth did not even have a chance to comprehend Where the bullet was from. Was it the police or was it from a terrorist? The youth did not know. Only the postcard, he noticed, in his pocket Soaked up with his own blood.