Thursday, June 20, 2019


I walk through this burnt village of Bengal,
Once an epitome of culture, ripped apart by religion.
A little girl hiding in the bush, in a hushed voice said, "They are coming".
I saw mad men, intoxicated with religious ideal, frantic with hate, too many of them.
Laughing like hyenas, took the little girl, violated her and stabbed her to death. And I didn't as much as move.

Oh! It feels like a sleep paralysis.

One of them shouted, "Salvation! "
His evil scream should've shaken the Gods!
But they didn't come.

I woke up.
Panting, horrors of the dream kept me awake for the night.
It's a curfew, it's a riot, no internet to express my feelings. The only thing I can see on the streets, patches of blood.

Will salvation ever come?

How long should I wait for salvation to come! I don't recall the name of the girl. Does it matter?
She might be Ramza, who loved to doodle, or was it Durga, who loved math?

In a country far away from here, the kimono of a little girl still burns, but Salvation never comes.
Rishik DuttaGupta
Topic(s) of this poem: culture,dream,feminism,girl,nationality,nightmares,pain,painful,redemption,religion

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1/21/2021 12:37:56 PM #