History Of Civilizational Poem by Arijit Lahiri

Civilization? A burnt-out Kurukshetra—blood-soaked bricks and all.
The ghost just chills, watching the exploiters win like it's rigged DLC.

That crusty bourgeois struts around, counting stolen loot
while the working class hubby lies there, full-on Abhimanyu mode—dead in the maze.

Factories spin like war traps—
everyone walks in, no one gets out. Ever.

The hubby ain't Krishna, bro—no ear-whispers, no divine hacks,
just his dead body getting yeeted under capitalist gears.

The bourgeois sings off-key at fake-ass festivals,
while the ghost scribbles on walls: "Infinite supply? LOL, it's gone."

And the war? Doesn't end at sunrise.
Just a burnt clay smell, lingering in history's stoned diary.