At a red light, a father waits—
two children balanced on the bike behind him,
the lorry ahead heavy with bricks,
its shadow pressing down like fate.
The signal turns green,
but instead of moving forward
the lorry rolls back—
a careless inch, a fatal slip.
Metal strikes, balance breaks,
the man falls, his head against the median,
blood opening like a dark flower
on the indifferent road.
The children cry,
but the crowd turns away,
their wheels spinning past
as if compassion were a burden.
He lies there, bleeding,
until chance delivers an ambulance—
a driver unnamed,
an assistant unpraised—
lifting him gently,
though life has already begun to leave.
Later, the photographs appear:
close-ups of blood,
the stillness of a broken body,
credited to the man behind the lens.
For these images, he is crowned—
best photographer of the year,
felicitated, applauded,
while the man’s wife and children
are left anchorless in the storm.
What is this honor,
when compassion is absent?
What is this art,
when humanity is lost?
Now, in every disaster,
we reach not for hands but for phones,
framing suffering for likes,
trading lives for subscriptions,
forgetting that duty is not to witness,
but to act.
When will we learn
that a life outweighs a like?
When will we remember
that compassion is the truest lens?
When will we choose
to be selfless, unselfish,
to stand with the fallen
instead of filming their fall?
