It's an ordinary evening:
The children in the park, playing,
grandfather on the chair, cuppa
In his trembling hands, with bones
Making them slender branches,
Granny, with rosary, shouting
At the falling of utensils,
And Mr. Khan soaking up indignation,
Came out, and looked at the silent sky,
And sat in the lawn to smell daffodils.
It's not an ordinary evening:
The thickest smoke was the sky
In the park after a huge explosion
Had smashed all the lovely faces
Of those Who were friendly with greenery. Everyone rushed
across the road to see theirs,
But skeletons scattered around.
There's no ordinary evening:
No shouting of granny,
No chair of grandfather outside,
And no jumping, hopping
In the beautiful park,
And he looked at invisible face of God.