A chilly, wintry night collapsed
Into a disastrous morn; all eyes,
laden with a sea of hopes,
were unaware of the monster born.
It happened in *Latur, a sleepy hamlet
where the monster’s writ ran across
crumpled faces, agony yet to die;
It returned for another harvest
winnowing clouds of death,
tears drained out of starred eyes.
Untold tales in those terrified faces
but tectonic plates do not hear!
A mind-tossing query now.
How many of those clefted lives
would start from the scratch,
seek a shade, then a shovel
with the young tugging at the sleeve,
desolation eating into distress?
Soldiers dole out crumbs of salve,
shaken by the enormity of pain -
relief packets, medicines, clothes.
Would they help lay fresh bricks
of living in the cemetery of life?
And the scar in its wake deeper
across the wall of time;
Its gnarled face a portrait of nightmare!
P.S.: It is on the earthquake and its aftermath in Latur, Maharashtra, India years ago.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem