We heard the sound, distant rumbling. We watched the castles fall, crumbling. The choice of running to the rubble, or staying safe in our bubble. But either way, someway it'd hurt with either hands or head in dirt. Some tragedies are too galactic, and words just sing anticlimactic.This entry was posted in India, poem, Poetry and tagged India, Pandemic, poem, poetry by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
