O This Time

On the tips of our fingers is playing, the spring hide and seek with colors ! But beneath our feet no lush green grass, only poisonous shrubs. From the mouth of desires uttered rain drops pattering and, in our brains bright red fire ! With wings widely spread dancing, black owl the angel of death the future though uncertain, ignored mercilessly. A She-swine ceaselessly, is beating a human infant with her sagged breast nipples. Somebody has cruelly pinned the fast moving time to prehistoric wall, and we see a surgical Knife sparkling in time’s mighty hand. Nights running away on the strange streets, an atlas of dread fear in their flaccid eyes, bloods trickling down the bandage of their age old wounds. The lives who sleep on the foot paths now immutable on the canvas of the serene sky and their eyes blank no luster there ! On the other side of the road tender grasses of new morn, on the wide chest of green corn field waves of golden paddy ! O’ the soul of this brutal time, treacherously left your cage the perishable body, rampant of life; why are you now tiptoeing into the city of nerves with alert steps ! We therefore pray thee, One day, red roses will bloom with thousand colors of rich human spirit on the sand beds of dried up river.