Blood In Those Hands


I have thought of many
ways inexorable
inescapable I have
thought of writing poetry
matching guns and gun shots
the poetry clutches on to
a wild moonlight opaque
with dreams
the gunshots spiral towards
a death dealing insolent
universe, the poetry spins
on its axis and the words
are eaten by bizarre choking
sounds. Then there is silence
a misery which lurches towards
an erosion of feeling. Stamped
boots. Echo the sounds
stamp the feet
can words ever give permanence
to the blood in those hands?






Ananya S Guha writes from Shillong, INDIA.

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