Hostage (Poetry)

However old the man,
the mother sees the boy -
the infant in his eyes,
the child from which he grew.

She knows the smell of him -
the skin she used to wash,
the part of her he fills,
the hair she used to brush.

She still recalls his shoes,
his favourite shirts and toys,
the scabs that scarred his knees,
his tantrums and his smiles.

Whoever took his life
has killed more than they know -
a nation lost its hope
and nothing good will come.

The final image plays -
the world sees just a man,
the victim a mere pawn,
a mother sees her son.