They strode into history
over the mutilated carcass
of the dawn
the blood raining in sheets
through the blinding fog
of orphaned memory
The shellshocked town
where we played blindman’s buff
with our dreams,
elusive and few—
the only witness
to our piecemeal death
We called it the second coming
in a voice too feeble
for the walls to betray us
Charged with treason
the trees now languish
in prison cells of barrenness
Over our eyes
falls the blindfold
of perpetual night
as swords
brandished in fanatic zeal
cut in half
our rations of fresh air
Stop. The way ends here
The cobbled paths
that forked into either/or
have recanted their liberal views
You ask
Where are your schoolbooks?
while we grope
in the dark
for the alphabet’s last matchstick
Our chais are coloured russet
with lynchings
Our kabobs skewered with fear
Our tongues pregnant
with syllables of protest
are buried alive
in the mouth’s mildewed sepulchre
Those pungent flowers
of diktats—
see how they pile every day
upon our silence
The streets are all empty now
Embalmed in superstition
they barely register any pulse
Tell us:
why do our tears
sprung from veiled eyelids
burn these pages
you are writing on?