The Mandala


The camp was alive with noises, all refugees packed in a tent.
Adults were busy surviving, children playing on cement.

One little girl sat in a corner, a paper between petite hands.
Her brown eyes warily studied the printed design that it had.

She gazed at the pretty Mandala, the intricate lines and swirls.
She carefully brushed her fingers over its edges and curls.

Midway through her stroke she shuddered
and jerked to a stop on the page.
Her hand retreated to safety,
her eyes became distant and glazed.

The camp was deafened by bombshells,the refugees trapped in a tent.
Adults were wailing and screaming as children lay still on cement.

The girl stared at lines on the paper, the borders she had to cross.
The uniform marching patterns, with a dark stain dragged across.

She picked up a crayon to color, eyes sunken intent on her task
and never looked up from the paper, as she colored her Mandala black.

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