The Man In The Grave Yard Poem by Santosh Misra

THE MAN IN THE GRAVE YARD

Oh! There comes the silent
storm of fire,
Of course, smokeless but
rich in affluent heat.

Some term it as extraordinary
Some identify it to be
a surprising event: may be celestial.

A man on the footpath fighting for life
And crying in pain of fatal burns
Is forced to tolerate it
As a start of devastation, unimaginably.

The aristocrats ignore these cries,
Rarely lend their holy hands
With passion to wipe the wounds;
Yet crushed under a diminished aristocracy.

Who then can be the God's incarnation?
To administer a ray of hope,
To seize the fire around
And waive a cooled breeze.

Might be that there exists no other go,
Let rule the fire storm and
Gather heaps of ashes of burnt humans.

Some day someone around may approach
With a lighted candle in hand
And start singing the bravery of
The man in the Graveyard.
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