Today, wasn’t like any other day,
Or was it, another stroke of unseen power at play?
One day it’s Kashmir,
The other Bastar,
Some other day Africa,
Or Latin America,
Maybe, tomorrow it’s Syria..
But this morning it was a place I used to know,
A place my friends called home!
Everyday a bomb blasts and a child dies,
My soul lets unheard cries,
A part of my heart breaks into pieces,
I search for meaning in poetry, in words, yet see only conflict,
I turn the pages that are blank narratives of unheard voices dipped in blood,
Those innocent smiles and cold bodies float in front of me,
Some washed ashore by the sea,
Some swallowed whole, yet there are ‘those’ who refuse to see.
Lessons in history run through my fingers as I turn the book,
Those unheard voices in the unwritten nook,
Wiped out because we can’t at them, ‘look’..
There are those in black designer suits,
Who design the outcome of our civilian lives,
There are those who attend a summit,
And decide the roles and rules we must omit!
The air smells unfamiliar,
The trench open and bare.
Today it’s them,
Yet the ones in black suit make no fuss!
That sign with a cross-pen,
That closed border,
That power in them,
Through the desert till it dissolves that lone cactus stem!