Before the guns and bombs were made
the clubs and fists were swung
names for numbers now we trade
the senseless turned all numb
crumbled blocks broken down
create, destroy, rebuild
a three ringed circus paints a town
the crop gives up its yield
when fields demark a hospital
operations carry hope
what's kept for some is lost for all
descent, a slippery slope
the yoke is held on common ground
the round encasement smoked
logic is stuck on what was found
when starched and staunch men spoke
to quote with quaint eloquence
will mask whose fate was sealed
an absence of benevolence
when truths have been revealed.
IN THE SINK
dishes are in the sink
and, like the leaky faucet,
my hope falls with every
drip
.
drip
.
drip
while the spaces in between,
filled with all things unsaid,
demark another anxious moment
she didn’t call.
Five summers past, Varkala was to be a geopark
Three of us today are walking its streets in the dark.
Between buildings and trees are hidden birth rocks
Of a vulnerable cliff,
We are hunting for the cinnamon bush lark
Who have found a new habitat on these soft sedimentary rocks.
To save Varkala, we drew out a chart
With dots to show where to place garbage and dumps
With pointers to not dig the cliff,
On the slopes we drew lines to demark
From where water should drain down
Leave the cliff as before, dry and stark.
We hope to find out land's birthmark
After we give Varkala a bright new start.