India Poem by Basu Maan

Local men,
their dialects –
talk of the town.
Some residents
can barely,
merely frown.

Be it the north,
or the east,
the south,
or the west –
hatred galore
everywhere,
blood is red
no longer.

Scared eyes,
shabby attire,
steps in flight,
houses on fire –
demon called ‘death’
dancing
while townships
gasping.

Green and white
revolutions,
giving way to
bloody illusions!
O, thieves
come what may,
steal all the fire
all the arms away. (2008)