he walks, with the ghoulish moon
staring at his washed shorts
sleeves of his shirt are a muffled war gimmick
he wakes up to the fever of sunlight
when morning braces
into heavy metalled doors
and cordoned, stiff roads.
He knows that with every
morning stellar gun shots
will fall prey to his outlandish death wish
his stalking hybrid grey ghost.
He knows the explosion
will only make him turn to the other side
of the bed, the other side of a greased, tarred road
where pebbles do the daunting task
He walks sturdily.
We too know,
what he knows
at crack of dawn
when bleak curtains are drawn
when gun shots are heard rapping
on the television, when the news caster
hurls words, like rapid stuttering gun shots,
we too know, what he knows, that the
caves once man inhabited, were depredations
of lost civilization, now; blackened eyes
still pray for freedom and menstruated love.
Ananya S Guha