Menu
Monday, November 25, 2019

No Place For Liberals

The poet walks the lonely road as always,
This time in the dark corners of a prison
For he wrote!
People who think are always in trouble.
"Why do you do this? ",the coarse voice of a prison guard asks. But he is silent.

His death nears.
The poet
Whose ink never dried,
Today chocked from a dried throat;
Fear: a feeling, very unfamiliar overcomes him.
He gets a panic attack for the first time in his life.

The vultures wait to rip him off,
The king not aware of his existence, eats his favorite Dhokla!
Some of his trusted comrades send garlands of shoes to the poet's daughter, who hates her father.

She researched in a history that proves the King is the reincarnation of God, stripped from all her titles now hiding with a petty identity of a whore.

In a different realm, Saraswati cries and Brahma consoles.

Judgment Day is here
He was asked for his favorite food and he asked for a pen, for the last time and as he writes
Every word mauls the papers, they bleed profusely, again asking for Azaadi.

It should have been dawn at 5: 18 AM But it's still dark at Seven.

The Gods who gave us the power to reason mourns and blame each other for only one word they should not have coined:

Anti-national.
Rishik DuttaGupta
Topic(s) of this poem: frustration,liberty,nation,poet,death
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS

Delivering Poems Around The World

Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...

1/21/2021 1:04:28 PM # 1.0.0.415