Poet's Fancy Poem by Santhosh Divakaran

How many were killed
in the times gone by?
Sometimes in singles,
sometimes in mass.

At dawns as daylight
set out on its stroll,
As boiling noons
played with fire,
As dusks roosted
seeing the house lit up,
As darkness descended
blindfolding night -

How many were killed,
How many, yet to be?

It's easy to kill
colonies of ants.
No matter the strain
No matter the place,
It's sheer fun
to finish off in lots!
No wails to confound the ears,
No open stares to kill the sleep,
No piles of bodies to block anyone,
No stamps of blood to stain the hands.
Those who witnessed wouldn't have seen,
Those who heard wouldn't utter a word,
Even time walks off as a breeze
humming a tune!

If the slain are ants
No assassins are to be seen,
No flags fly half-mast.
And no flocks of vultures that prey on the end,
turn that way.

What if history digs deep, later?
It too fancies bones and skulls,
and crowns and sceptres so obscene.
Even a war that confers greatness
is naked massacre,
glorified slaughter!

Aren't a few rice-grains,
a speck of sweet
strewn on the path
that the monarch treads?

(Thanks to Mr. A.V. Harisanker, for the English translation)