Mumbai---Not a poem

My brother was on that step, tying his shoe-laces,
My sister was in that kitchen washing the dishes,
My father was reading the papers in that maple chair,
My mother was cradling the baby in her hotel bed,
My soul-mate was playing a guitar on that stage,
I was home staring at the TV, watching them, all of them.
The unidentified corpses…and the identified…
All blasphemic, anonymous losses.
Anonymous paradox, anonymous stings.
The fire is gone, but they are yet burning…
And the rage, and the hatred,
And the love and the faith.
And it all comes back to the top of the tree
When a branch burns, it inflames other trees.
The trunk remains to remind all of us this---
There’s nothing more to let down,
There are only those to be down with.