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My son, look at the azure sky
And the yellowish red cloud
Cover the sun below.
Like this so many
Nature’s paintings were
Divinely described by them.
When horses and warriors fell,
My son, it was them who
Tightened the bones of laymen
To fight against the darkness.
When unidentified corpses
Were scattered across the streets
And graves were made without
Scribbled stones,
My son, they lamented upon them
And scribbled in their pages.
When human hearts were darkened
With greed and pride,
My son, their fiery words
Purged their souls.
Behold, the worn out hut
Down in the valley of shrubs,
There lived the last one of that kind.
I have a hackneyed vision
Of the man with the walk of an oxen
And vision of an eagle,
Killed in front of the modern men.
There was four times rain
And two times harvest,
Evil was smashed
And the humble released
When he was living there.
My son, hark a secret:
Still his unread neglected
Scribbling is with me,
Which they will set fire if they find.
My son, will you keep this
Until it sparks another poet?
(Read at Kritya International Poetry Festival. Star finalist in the Voicesnet poetry competition)
JTjaya singh
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