The horse’s torso talks to me like a whisper,
In the aftermath. Carnage of horse meat,
Who sold all the horse-parts to war. 
Daggers inside the bull’s mouth,
They scrape the color off the paint.
Disjointed anatomies in anarchy,
Of the sheer persistence of time,
From the minute before to the minute after.
And there are two lights, the torture chamber’s,
A heart tormented by grief, of seeing
A bomb explode right in front of one’s eyes.
And a lantern flickers in the hands of the
The strolling woman, and still
There were no Florence Nightingales
To give life, morphine or last rites.
The doomsday vessel is a zoo, or perhaps Noah’s ark,
Dismembered on a canvas, and in this carnage
Of the gluttony of death, in those ineffaceable
Patterns of anatomical parts, you see the ominous,
Mosaics of black, white and grey
And how can you not miss the palms, too bloody to let,
The doves fly. The black gore unites, the many, called in time,
While one palm of Jesus, keeps the faithful happy.
Death lives in this debris of flesh, a glimpse
Of the stitchwork, as limbs float like rafts carrying souls,
Trying to steer away from the rivers of the underworld.
3000 bombs, they say, were dropped that day in Guerinca.
And here in Sri Lanka, there were the same
Number of Claymore mines below the soil.
Now in the year 2017, there are 20-30 somethings,
With prosthetic legs, whose limbs one ill-fated day,
Were flying like eloping kites.

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