Could this have happened in the year 1971?

Could this have happened in the year 1971?
(Referring to 1971 Bangladesh genocide)

Little past the dawn, the mother gazes and waits to see the starry eyes of Potka.

Only when his father’s snore got louder and unrhythmic, did his eyes open.

As he runs towards the haystack to count the ducklings that hatched till that morning,

He shouts at his mother to ready the porridge that she promised as he returns.

Hours spent in gaiety; lost his path and lands somewhere far away from home.
He is confronted by a horseman; who appeared so brutal and too unlikely to be a savior.
Ali, the horseman gallops along the floodplain, but struggles as he runs for Potka’s life.
While Potka makes his way through the bushes and the branches to escape the inroad.

The chase goes on and Ali notices the pace at which Potka’s toes move on.

While for Ali, the boy is guileless and worth only a few ounces of flesh and bones.

But he keeps the chase on and sometime forgets it’s an enemy-child and that he is on his job to kill.

Ali recalls his son that of Potka’s age; he would have played with now, had he not been sent for the kill.

Ali asks, who so special, you are picking berries for while you are on your death run.

Potka says, it’s for my sister and I pick it always whenever I pass by this way.

Ali says, your sister must be dead as we lasted the kill till the last mortal was seen alive.

Potka cries and hurls the berries at Ali, but widely misses it this time.

Much farther, Ali asks, whom are you picking these firesticks for.

Potka says it’s for my Granny; she lights them up to keep us warm at dayfall.

Ali says, she too must be dead; have seen one burnt, probably in the same firesticks you had last picked.

This time again Potka cries and hurls the firesticks, but widely misses it this time too.

Still farther, Ali sees him pick a feather, and asks him the same question over again.

It’s for my mate, who is blind and has no other mate, and feels the joy when rubbed on his face.

He must be dead too; have seen a blind thrown off the bridge, so says Ali.

Haplessly Potka hurls the feather, but this time it swirls back to him.

The long run led him finally at the front of the door that was known and so much his own.

His sister when born was joined to the mother at the umbilical.

And now they lie dead, and still joined, but by the one spear that passes through their bodies.

The porridge lies ready, as she had promised; but he expected it white, but now it’s all in red.

He always knew his father is the most valiant of all the men; so couldn’t take him for dead.

Morning the snore was felt noisy; and now gets his ear closer to the chest to hear the slightest of breath.

First time he saw his uncle closer to his aunt and their blood passing on to the other.

When alive they always fought from a distance lest one inhales the breath that the other exhales.

He makes his way out as the sight of it is far more dreadful than his escape from Ali.

Even the buck lies dead; woke them up all; least needed now when all lie dead, never to wake up again.

As innocent as a child, he still fears for his own life when nothing around him is left.

He begs not to be killed; want to stay alive only to see all the ducklings hatch.

The sight of Potka pains him and brings the thought of his son whom he left far behind.

So he asks him to hide behind the bushes before he shoots as he cannot see him die.

He is even ready to face the vengeance the Lord would lay upon him for this act of tyranny.

For if he spares Potka, his fellow men wouldn’t spare the little boy from an even more brutal death.

Ali tells Potka not to lose faith in humanity; for no people are bad, but the situation do go bad.

Blessed he be and upon his death, let him be born in a land surrounded by love, peace and lushness.

Bless my child, My Lord! Ali cries out loud and shoots the boy to death in one single shot.

And further cries out loud to the Almighty, “You give us only Peace. Food we can grow all by our own”.