Peace Pagoda Poem by Saroj Padhi

A wingless white dove of peace cut in stone
seated atop Dhauli hill, toward the dead river Daya looks on
repeating every syllable of change in heart of king Ashoka
in the voice of a tired wind that blows on
across the forest cover to the ripples to rest on
and constantly repeats those words of love and peace
writ on the rocks that echo chemistry of transformation
that took place long ago in heart of a blood thirsty imperialist
at the behest of a Buddhist monk,
after formidable Mouryan chariots had crushed Kalinga
and spilled rivers of blood with their violent swords;

the river flows on to its dead end
without the ancient hug from lake Chilka
pointing to the futility of movement,
false vanity of victory in war
and the sad elegies of an unchanging Time
caught in the vortex of violence without and within
as landmines go off at borders
killing the innocents and fires from enemy don't cease
despite pacts of peace signed by history
and rocks with edicts
are constantly mocked by bullets
that pierce the heart of human civilization!

When will we realize the sad lessons of life
as we live on
as motes of dust in sun-beam,
constantly chased by smokes and shadows?
Who will save us from fervent hatred and false love?
Who will save us, from ourselves?