Tag: Civil War

Guernica

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

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Killinochi

The dire landscape of a no man’s land Where the macaques make busy jumps From tree to tree. Palmyra grow Like pillars with canopy. An intersection Of ethnicities, where a little excavation Will unfold bones pealed of flesh. War is just a cannibal; it is famished Of loathe and bites the very flesh that searches

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A War Mum with a New Born

Gravity-defying stunt Of how the lap-work cradle Of a mother, in horizontal transfer, Makes little waves of sleep Under an ebony tree. He sleeps through the sounds Of night owls and fruit bats Not knowing the difference Between the two. Yet looking constantly out at The breast that feeds, the child suckles The nectar, not

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A Child in Aleppo

At night, Aleppo is buzzing With mosquito flutter, drones on auto-pilot And war planes under human control Shells falling from the sky. And a little boy in a shelter Looks through a crack in the window To see a shell falling from the top. And death was at first a dot, a blip That fell

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Sri Lanka

I come from where the Tigers gnarled And ripped apart the lion’s heart And yet we sleep in the dens Of our own security, knowing no black and white stripe Can make prisoners of us, No yellow beast can pounce and shred Our dreams. And we still have scars Of where tigers gripped their teeth

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Soldiering On

After 26 years of seeing blood Spewing out from arteries They now protest for a few thousand Rupees folding in their palms To spit out the scarlet paint of Areca nuts Made basic with lime And a sedentary armchair next to a wheel Chair has a little artefact on which Betel leaves are kept. Leaves

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Exit Wounds (Soldier and the Tamil Girl)

A proud soldier of the state inside a bunker A canvas about to be painted In shrapnel wounds, blood strokes, Dappled red, turning white to a paler shade. He was telling a story inside the bunker, How the beautiful Tamil girl with a pottu Was a goddess and all he wanted was things to be

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Peace

  In the playground of life There are obese buttocks on see-saw planks Tugs-of-war of desires and need And high bars and hurdles erected by malice and greed When children of a lesser god Play to win miniature figurines As mementos of fragile glory Sketched on murals Of white and grey matter. And amidst such

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