Evm Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

I stand—
before the machine,
after crossing a U-shaped queue,
some argued it was an S—
it made no difference.

I had to prove I was genuine,
a man from his own land.
I was let in—
by men with machine guns.
I entered. It felt like fun.

Then, one by one,
slowly, steadily,
I moved towards—
the machine of power,
freedom of choice—or else.

I stand:
names on the left—power,
buttons on the right—choice,
and my finger—
I touch.

This is the closest to power
I have been.
This is the closest I am.
A light—
then a sound.

A few seconds,
and choice becomes power.
I don't know what happened.
I left—
I did not look back.

Power was kind
for a few seconds—
it allowed me to touch.
Five years from now,
it may not.

So many possibilities—
yet power is power:
the distance
between street and tower.
A kind touch
makes it magnanimous.