The Wasteland

I blink and I see it.
I blink again, it's gone.
"Come back! Please come back."
My shouts barely make it to a whisper.

It's been a week—since the vulture left.
It had first picked me in its claws,
Then dropped me off here.
I only remember the blood,
And the hunger I felt.

This wasteland is beautiful,
Too silent and too yellow.
There is a criss-cross of rusty silver,
Caging us in this yellow sand.

I miss the village sounds—
Of the boys laughing
And the vegetable market.
Now, we don't see vegetables.

There, I always complained about the boys,
I couldn't sleep because they laughed so loud.
Here some people have started building,
There are some red and yellow bricks.
I am not sure what they are trying to build.

I remember the door to our house,
The same red and the walls inside,
A pale yellow— like the sand. 

Now, paint chips litter the ground
And I find lots of quiet, I can sleep.
But I miss the boys—
The boys don't laugh anymore.

I blink and I feel hot,
The other bodies. Other bodies...
They don't say anything.
Do their eyes blink in and fade out
Like mine?
Where are the boys?
And why won't they laugh anymore?
I won't complain if they were to laugh again.