Decanter

I see the sea. The pink sea-anemone's arrays
tossing clownfish in and out.
It is transparent, despite squids' and worms' rattles.
Monster's slyness doesn't muddy the sea.
I see. Its scent rise like the spray of colors shot upward,
a bridge between the two extremes.

I cannot see, what this bridge hinges to.
I am told that it is Paradise,
The home of God.
But what about the stench of blood, sight of strewn bodies
that adorn the lining of the sea? Do these reach him?

Scents from Brussels, Baghdad, Turkey, Dhaka.

Obfuscated into Ghosts of reflections.

Blindfolded?
I can no more see young girls playing at beach.
My youth witnesses the gut-churning anatomy of mankind,
as it gets washed down the shore
in form of thousand 3-year olds, at
mile-stretch of beach.

I only see the how faith congeals discriminately,
how tummies go empty for weeks and months,
how hell rewards in yearning for Life,
to survive for another second.

Does he see these too?