I lay in my bed,
As silent as erased chapters of history.
My own identity is a war within myself
Stretching towards instinct, only to snap back into the cages of
I feel beneath my feet, the concrete warm
Like an ocean of frozen time
Stuck in an ever-worsening landscape
Of de-humanised romanticism.
I wrote an ode for the fake plastic trees that day,
Revolutions no longer make sense
The stone-pelters lover sits in silence
The fighters of a nearly forgotten war.
The barbed wire strangles the subcontinent
Slowly squeezing out its life
A gaudily made-up whore
Offering her rotting flesh
To the passerby.
I think the first signs of warning were
In the lack of repurcussions,
The wrong began to win,
Again and again,
Till it became right.
There was poison in the air,
For the mangoes tasted like papayas,
And the sun kept marking days
Landmarking the lack of change
In a desolate landscape called diversity.
The wikipedia page for the republic of india
Reeks of paid construction
Of a history that fans the flames
To scourge this soil of its multi-faced Identity.
Like cockroaches, headless
We wheeze through our pores and go about our mute routine
The right fizzing into wrong
In an alien space called home