Dr.Suryaraju Mattimalla Poems

And here I stand, with grief and blazing ire,
To mourn a voice who lit the hearts to fire:
Charlie Kirk, patriot of steadfast creed,
Who sowed in youth the everlasting seed
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Dear Madam Manuela and your husband so dear,
Every day on the bus, your presence brings cheer.
"Namaste" we whisper, with smiles that unite,
Your beautiful warmth makes our world feel right.
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On a cold day in Regensburg,
Divine intervention led us to meet.
We were aliens in an alien land,
Bearing tears, bearing heartaches,
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ORS, draped in borrowed grace,
With banners of "care" on your glistening face-
Yet beneath your halls in Zurich, the whispers burn,
And in Bern and Lyss, the cold winds turn.
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In Regensburg's shadows, you lie silent,

A child of hope, a beacon bright,
Left alone in a land where hate resides,
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Where hope may go dim Even in a world where hope may go dim

You shine as bright in the face of the dark.
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O Robert, keeper of truth,
In a market noisy as it is, to break the silence,
You were against the storm,
Guarding the truth in the purest sense.
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In the depths of Andhra's fertile land, a leader rose,
A tribune of the poor, whose kindness forever glows.
YS Rajasekhar Reddy, a name etched in hearts,
A man whose compassion set countless lives apart.
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From the lush fields of Andhra, a story unfolds,
Of two leaders whose compassion forever holds.
YSR, a beacon of hope in times of despair,
A leader born to show the world he cares.
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Beneath the weight of an unforgiving world, my son Stanford Suryaraju Mattimalla was robbed from me and was strangled by hands clothed with the garb of legal authority—a system that treats the vulnerable as experimental rats—by a neo-Nazi gynecologist in Regensburg, who saw not a life but a body to be used. On June 28, Wednesday,2023, in the asylum camp of Bajuwarenstr.,1A, my African wife, Selamawit Hailu Bezabih, became a vessel for their cruelty at the time of her 37th week and 3rd day of pregnancy, injected with Repevax, a vaccine she never needed, a shot that was never mandatory, a decision disguised as care but woven with malice. They spoke of protection, of winter's looming chill, but instead, they froze my son in death's embrace. And then, by July 2nd or 3rd, this tiny form lay still, silenced by a cold indifference that carried the name of science but reeked of something far more ancient: racism, xenophobia, and the quiet brutality of those who hold power over the displaced.

The German state, its legal systems, and its medical minds all turned away and dismissed our cries with the cruel insistence that his death was natural. What is natural about injustice? What is natural in the course of a life stolen before it had a chance to unwind? But Stanford was not a victim of mere migration; he was a victim of a world that feasts on the helpless, a history repeating itself in endless cycles of bigotry and denial. As Hindu swallowed my nameless Untouchable Madiga child in the blood-soaked name of Hindu honor, Africa and Germany took Stanford in the mask of migration and medicine. My son was declared dead on Tuesday, July 4,2023, at Caritas-Krankenhaus St. Josef in Regensburg, and by Tuesday, July 11,2023, he was laid to rest in 'Friedhof am Dreinigenberg, ' or 'Cemetery on Trinity Hill, ' in Regensburg, Bavaria, Germany. But there is no rest in my heart, no peace in this world justifying the unjust, which buries its sins beneath legal verdicts and scientific jargon. My son's name should have been a song, a future, a light—but instead, it is an echo swallowed by silence, a grief I must carry in a land that refuses to see.
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