By Srija Mondal
Wake from your ecstatic lucid dreams,
Schizophrenic us have realized, the old man was wise.
Realized the depth of his truth.
You wish,
His words have hurt more,
Brought more tears down your cheek.
Now clutch your bosom, bring your knees closer
And wind your arms tighter.
When you slept with your eyes open,
The ghosts of dying children didn’t haunt you.
Now they do. And so, do the
Inaudible moans of inhuman creatures,
Screams of raped girls, murdered men, and butchered souls.
Hear the ringing sirens of war,
Of massacre and non-existent ceasefire.
See the black smoke and dry, cracked soil,
Ash gray leaves and white trunks of trees,
Spaceless cities and desolate villages.
There are colorful piles of capitalist sorrows,
Natural beauty and human excreta,
And little malnourished children who will play around them.
The world is a machine, and few have the manual.
Some hold the strings, and rest- puppets for hell.