Black satanic fumes
shroud the blank blue skies
in puffing jet black soot;
few flashy cameras record
glimpses of destruction
(for tomorrow's papers) ...
Our huts are burning—
Regular huts in proper rows.
Dry thatches (conspirators-in-crime)
feed the flames as we rush out
open mouthed hysterical curses
and as if in an answer—
when the blazing work is done
Fire engines arrive...
These feverish cries continue
in the same shrilly pitch
echo, echo, echo and
Reverberate and sound as loud
as snail shells crackling under nailed boots
and perhaps as distinct and defenseless.
This double catastrophe projected in sights
and shrieks evokes...
Those above are (mostly) :
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Comments about this poem (Fire by Meena Kandasamy )
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