Canvas Poem by Debasish Verma

I am summarizing the facts,
Trying to collect some artifacts
that got saved from fire;
To reorganize my broken home,
To clean up the cups and plates
where food is still sticking around,

To fix up the broken bulbs,
To collect the boots and the combat uniform,
The belts and the badges
Which I see strewed here
in the light of a shattered oil lamp.

Yes, it all belongs to my father,
This time he could not return from the battleground,
Could not resist the bullet of distrust
fired endlessly from guns of abhorrence and ignorance.

There I stand and behold a pathetic sight;
I do not know how to judge the situation
How to realign, how to embrace my faith;
How to breathe out the words of wisdom
that echo in every hymn.

The endless shower of bombs has deafened
my ears that are accustomed to hearing simple prayers.
I see a conclave of worn-out people
with children and old sitting on the left out coffins,
They are sharing their meal without fear and mistrust

In the silence of the graveyard;
where the sound of holocaust got buried
with the mutilated corpse here.
I see a painter is painting on the canvas;
the pathetic story of a diseased generation,

Sitting on the debris of an ancient civilization,
with the oil of restoration and brush of recent revolution;
Dipped in the blood of liberation,
just like an adept master busy
in impeccable action.