Oil And Blood Poem by Dr Harish Yadav

One runs a nation,
the other runs a body—
and between them,
a friendship of necessity
learns the language of war.

Sometimes blood is spent
to save a drop of oil.
Sometimes oil is guarded
so blood does not spill.

From the dark womb of earth
rose a silent black river—
it lit the cities,
taught iron to move,
gave wheels their restless hunger.
And then there is red—
warm, immediate,
flowing in fragile maps beneath skin,
paying quietly
for every borrowed light.

Oil travels slowly,
a patient whisper in the veins of civilization—
becoming speed,
becoming shine.
Blood does not wait.
It erupts—
a scream without grammar,
the body's final sentence
spilled upon dust.

In tombs of gold
a faint fragrance lingers—
but beneath crushed earth
the restless do not sleep.
Their shrouds are damp,
their silence wears
the weight of unfinished wars.

Mad fingers hover
over obedient buttons.
Missiles learn directions
in the names of oil, water, land.
Bones remember fear.
Smoke memorizes flesh.
Sirens swallow the sky
and return it as gunfire.

Liquid has become a thorn in the throat—
the thirst for oil
now tastes like blood.
Deals are signed in shadows,
and somewhere near a narrow strait,
humanity is quietly buried.

Forests burn.
Cities melt.
Oil flows.
Blood answers.
Wells are dug
beside graves—
depth competing with depth.
What a strange madness,
what a brilliant ruin.


They do not know
the cost of a drop of blood—
but to me,
one drop
is the whole world.