Katha SarkarI sleep miles away from the land
Called Holy;
The people are not mine yet
The pain is,
The homes are not mine
Yet the dust is,
The blood is not mine yet
Their Death is.
Chalks are drawing the borders,
Marking the dead bodies scattered around the dust
That was once called a town.
Powers abstained, and I belong to one of them
What should I do? Empathize in what I see or
Trust the hands
That govern me and my homeland?
But them?
What about their homeland?
They can now burn down the whole world.
Why not? Tell me?
The cries are not heard,
The beds of warmth are burnt down,
The hands of healing are cut into pieces,
The innocent shoes are painted in red.
Reds have marooned, no one came
No one washed them, no one sewed them
It’s all dust and ashes around
The chalks are now more in number
This time it’s in different colors
They are drawing borders around dust
That was once called a town.
We talk about humanity, does that exist?
If it does, why do guns and bombs have more power than mortals?
Weren’t the arrows made to survive?
To survive in the wilderness?
If we are ‘humans’ then where is the wilderness?
We talk about humanity, maybe that doesn’t exist.
The world has blood of millions in its hand today;
Tomorrow it will clean its hand in the river of Jordan.
Will it remember?
The annihilation of the land of holy,
The rape of the land of holy,
That was once called a town?
