The bells toll
but these are of bicycles
Jostling and pushing each other
in their hurry to reach where ever.
Small tea-shops, odd assortment
of ties, lungi, vest and shoes
gossip centering around the news.
Bread and cheese ones, in swanky mansions
– the television juggling their views.
Money controlling facial gestures
Get – a smile, take – a frown
Changing mental wallpapers
The gory killing on the screen
neither shocks nor registers.
and no after effects.
cold blooded murder
yet not of the person they think it was
Murder of faith as men turn into mercenaries
Misled by hunger- induced hallucinatory
images of being missionaries
Murder of the lone human race
Why kill? Why want something
in exchange of a death?
Humble origins of homo sapiens
maybe we still carry
some blue-green algae in our bloody veins
Our fishes, our trees, our tribe
my land, my state, my country
to carry evolution forward
to safely hand over earth
to the unborn warriors
untaught in the chakravyuh of politics.
Exaggerating trivial issues
to the gory point
of a fellow being’s ultimate sacrifice
dividing lives into countries, faiths
amidst noise and hollow victories.
crafted with the essence of loss
of crushed, sacrificed, innocent buds.
This was the promised land
They too wanted to throw stones
into the pond
to take a rain walk
to dream in the moon shine
But they could not
For their life lines were cut with hateful blades
even though earth had enough
Generation of blood art
Let us wipe out this unholy graffiti
from human walls
It is not too late.
©Reena Prasad 7th Feb 2012
Published in Brian Wrixon’s Anthology “The poetry of war and peace”