Products of casual friction of some nameless bodies
Sans love, rapture or ecstasy,
These children drop down like meteorites onto the city’s pavements.
The days that drip like drops of milk from time’s udder
Freeze grimly on their black-ice-cube-like skins.
Like dirty linen washed and hung in the open to dry
Their bodies smack of pangs of hunger.
The enigmatic conflict between ‘life and living’
Casts gloom over their childhood like a sandstorm.
Their lifing answerable neither to their own lives nor to society
Struggles floating like scum on the lava of crime.
Yet, they
Like an asylum of cuckoos hunted by a fowler
Never accost us about their future
Never beg us of their present
Nor they ever review their past.
They never despair, plain, dream or pray
For anything whatsoever.
With knees pared, and
Flies swarming over their tender palms sore
The prospects of this race seem deeply dented,
And wallowing in dirt and dust.
***
He chants a terribly vacuous song of nemesis
Seldom audible to anybody,
And those that can hear … care a dime.
Death is its muted burden;
Memories peeking through the opium-heavy eyes
Travel from deep dark realms of consciousness
To the luminous domains of dreamy sleep.
Perhaps
They are reminiscing,
His mother’s death on the road vomiting blood,
Or some stray loitering dogs smelling at her
Or the lipstick-shrieks for help of his sister
Being forcibly taken away in a black car…
Before countless sufferings, humiliations, and privations of the past,
Or the bourns of some kindred sub-human experience.
His mind that reeled mostly in ‘high’
Dies a wakeful death…
Ceasing with hiccups… gasping for breath.
His corpse now becomes a sail for someone else’s ship
Mark! The dead man till yesterday was
Childhood that roamed across the city streets.
***
Mansions go aflame within the dark labia of the night
With the cold embrace of vibe-less balls of meat;
The tears that seep through the crevices of window
Shall incense the roads wafting in whiffs;
Spiked boots run over
Those moaning bodies.
The conflict between heart and belly
Shall be moderated by
Either hunger… or by the truncheon.
Body changes hands
Like a corpse carried on a bier.
No diction can express the distress cries
Of tender teenage nerves crushed by piggy gorilla hands.
Dark shadows loom large over all girlhood which
Till days ago gamboled in childy frolic.
And, the Red Light Area beams
Like the gory cancerous growth on the society.
.
Aranya Krishna

Photo Courtesy:
BOOKS ADDA
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