By Anupama Bhargava
Both of them look alike.
They come to me as
Ten fingers on the hands
Capped with smoke, dust and blood,
Out of the locked grills and their
hanging over emptiness, deliberately concentrating at their face
rigidity of what’s going to happen to them, and
A strange assurance seems to have coated
They excavate pleads
from the hollow in their chest,
from behind the cold iron at the end of the narrow
streets formed by their hands waiting as if for some one to fill
Consuming time pretending to be, now, days.
Crashing against the acrid laughter
teething in the modern world arena, is their invertebrated cry.
It rolls back to the rust in their hand,
you miss us?"
Before it crack them both open.
The soiled bodies, of no body knows who,
bleed dead blood like the uncountable others,
And the guns whisper "Islam
Zindabad!" (Long live Islam)