The valleys and hills are burning
and we are watching.
The chambers of our hearts have
concrete walls.
Love struggles to find its way in.
I thought there were only humans.
But then came the disparities
men and women.
The invisible line dividing the
nation and the northeast.
Further barriers flaring
between the communities.
We kept watching as bystanders.
My late grandfather had said,
‘Freedom is like air.
You can never deny freedom.
You can never deny breathing.’
The hands should be joined in prayers.
The hands should be shaken with love.
But how can they rip a woman’s honour?
How can they callously kill each other?
Meanwhile in the street where I live
The headlines of the morning news
are forgotten with the evening tea.
Life goes on in oblivion, as if no bullet
ever escaped a gun anywhere.
An old lady who looks older than time
sells ripe mangoes on the footpath.
I ask her if she owns an orchard.
She smiles nonchalantly and speaks,
‘How can we own a piece of land?
Doesn’t it belong to all?’
A wounded state is bleeding profusely.
How is our heart still not wailing!
*After Manipur
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at editor@madrascourier.com.
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