By Ananya S Guha
Yes they don’t speak.
How can they?
They are merely graves.
Head less.
Face less.
They seek refuge
In the insides of
Molten, clayey earth.
They are not despoiled.
Their human bodies are.
They are face less.
They don’t speak.
Only mourn for
what they could
have been.
Humans with a home.
Humans with sprightly children.
Humans with an emerald
tear in their blinded eyes.
Now they are the mascots
of tyranny in hidden
obliterated graves
of infamy.
Let human rights
commissions write
tomes of reports.
They will not know
the villanous truth,
and that; day after
day in the valley
there is a rising
sun, and a sinking
day. Moon waxes
and wanes.
Their’s is an eloquent
truth, unfurled
in misty skies.
A hawk soars.
Blood letting.
History will be re-written
in some smouldering pages of anarchy.
