Prabhakar Subramaniam


On death row


We make it easy for death
There are all kinds
To be plucked at will
Female foetuses,
Malnourished infants
Children in hazardous work
Dream-dead youth
Farmers in the red
Despite a bumper crop
Women who cannot pay dowry
Innocent villagers lured
To borders for fake encounters
People who speak
The wrong language
Worship the wrong god
Tribals sitting on
Rich mineral deposits
Residents close to
Atomic plant sites
And nations with oil
Refusing democracy
Of the kind
That comes with
Depleted uranium
And uninvited forces.

Submitted: Saturday, July 05, 2014

Topic of this poem: death


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