Still Life Drawing.

Like a sajjāda—

It lays on top of the rubble

Perfectly still,

Facing the west,

Or east.

Who can tell?

Untouched but for

The splashes of red

That had soaked through

Like an oil mark

Leftover from bamieh

On a white tablecloth.

The sun: a round smile,

With spiked hair for rays.

A house,

Half drawn.

Windows rectangular,

A little wonky—

But still. She tried.

A path winding.

Stick figures

Without eyes,

But half-curved grins

Showing the

Joy

They could all have

Learned.

One day.

The sky is almost blank—

A scribble of

Blue

In the centre.

And,

A purple line

Adjacent,

Testing it out for size.

Still learning

The meaning of colour,

The shape of the world.

She hadn’t decided yet—

Which shade to choose.

Half made.

It lies on the floor—

Smudged—

And bloody.

But more

Alive

Than the tiny hands,

Clutching crayon

As a shield,

Just moments before.

Now

It hangs

In a room

With no roof.

The sky—vast, empty

Of promise—

Still waiting

To be finished.

She is nowhere

To be seen.

Didn’t even get

To sign

Her own name.