That guilt reeking dusk he gulps, with some smouldering sighs
His abrased chisel seethes, dungeon door writhed
He (the sculptor) cherished her nudgy prayers for a few morsels
She, a mute urchin, mutilated again, by those heinous fingers
Stifled he sat, on a whale-bone bed, urchin’s mother’s wails, his noose…
Walls crouch in frigidness, accusatory air reverberates
In a quiver tempestuous, he hauls the Psalm book, shuns the sly pen
Tonight, his language, neither Hebrew norAramaic
Chosen ink is justice, its syntax coined embracingly for all
Brown, banal, boorish, both genders and transgenders!
Flora and fauna, all agog, lame humans slither sledge
Now, it’s the sculptor’s turn to discourse…
Listen up folks, stop those freedom cannons, roaring tongues, inflammable skies…
Look beyond each other’s eyes, don’t you see oceans of avarice
Trees, robin-nests, earthworms, you strangulated, their hearts and havens
Ploughed their tomb souls to erect your towering concrete prides
Supreme warriors, you are not, or else you wouldn’t have butchered your brethrens!
Your vases still opting for white lilies, meagre morals, you are!
Relinquished to the bone, I leave you with this phrase
Stop those freedom cannons
Step back, loosen your clenched fists
And hold atleast one palm- friend or foe irrespective
One tolerant step, one peaceful word, and one luminous mind…
Most graceful revolutions have commenced through mindful oneness
Also, when they released those doves, and their vain valour, along.
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