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January 22, 2015 / hbrowne4

My Sordid Days by Sourav Bhattacharjee

I have heard the cry coming out of a baby –

Sitting helpless on the paves amidst the city;

Ragged in torn despicable clothing

His face blue in fear and hunger…

 

I have seen bullets piercing the calmness,

Piercing bodies, minds and souls while –

Leaving it behind to die bleeding and

Then lectures are thrown to deceive me repeatedly.

 

My state turns around me when I speak out

With grisly norms and forms of vindication;

Relentless in its pros and cons to stop me,

All it worships is my silence and obedience.

 

Plunged into such depths of fear

I try to look through the blurry glass of my window –

The city looks unclear – the humans look skeletons…

I see some creatures rushing through the streets.

Tagged with state-owned badges, some call them police

Some are Samaritans, leaders, activists and so on;

The city is not colourful but gray…

Plagued with violence and intolerance –

The world slowly moves on to an allay of darkness

Where tunnels of evil makes my way and even waves.

 

These sordid moments make my days.

From sunrise to the set – I am immersed into,

Such tantrums of exceptional cruelty and fanatics

Who pull out their strings and hound my beliefs.

My days being incomplete without them spirals through

The even more bitter moments of my life…

When right to protest is a luxury

Right to life is a target – where I begin every

Sordid days of mine with one hardest truth –

That I am allowed to survive but not to LIVE!

© Sourav Bhattacharjee 2015

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