I met Maria, once
By the bridge on Imphal turel.
Under the open autumn sky.
She had thousand questions in her eyes
and I had anwers to none...
Who perhaps killed her father?
He was a nice man,
I knew him well...
And we often used to sit together
Trying to understand each other...
I do not know how much he understood me,
But sure I was...
He was like me
A human with a heart...
He was killed,
Stuck between distrust and hatred;
Of men in olive green
Men with red rhetoric
But what I should tell Maria,
Was it me or her?
Who bore the burden of her death…?
I was his Faith in olive green
His hope in red revolution.
Maria had swollen eyes,
swollen with rage,shock or guilt,
I do not know..
The mist in them clouded the crystals they used to be.
The fields lie barren,
her father used to till them..
Orphaned like her on the alter of hatred.
But who will sing songs of sacrifice
her father made for me...
or her maybe.
She searches for a sunrise,
which sleeps inside her,
potent enough to change the way rainbows used to be.
and I have a deep resolve;
To spread the warmth abound.
on the fluorescence of rice saplings,
on those friendly fields
A mysterious misfortune;
Maybe be a myriad mirage.
She searches her slain sire;
Sublimed into supernatural…
Subconsciously simulating stormy scourge.
Blood boils, brews bigotry;
Bounces brains beyond bizarre.
Leave no latitude for logic.
Lives are lost; leaving lesions.
She should sit and search her soul;
Sober out and see,
Sacrifice her sire made,
For her and her unborn children,
Who will till these forgotten fields….
Sow peace and reap a golden harvest,
And remember their grandfather…
He will live in them forever.
“Matter can neither be created nor can be destroyed.”