By Ruchi Acharya
Feeling trapped in the system And heat from the burning pyres, Beautiful lives come to an end. Loss sighs, queued bodies wait for their turn Like helpless wanderers. Another cries, ‘O Mother, O Father!’ Wading through submerged hearts at the crematorium, Wet fodder exhausted over gloomy tombs, Their names will grow obscure and wither away. We will stay remembering their light -- ours has long gone. Don’t jest with one’s fresh wounds. Strip away your pride you filthy leaders, Take away their crowns! Melt them down! The Dead won’t return. And another cries, ‘O Mother, O Father!’ Bloody urns and goblets of ashes, Agony trapped in inescapable thralldom, Mourning streaks the silent streets, Death is dark and final. ‘Bones and muscles may char but one day the Sun will rise behind coal-smoked clouds.’ Embrace this life. Our country still thrives. We’ve got every reason to be afraid but we never run from a fight. ‘Hold on -- dandelion,’ the wind is hoarse. We won’t give up easily. We will fight until the end. In shrieking air, Our lungs will learn to breathe. Don’t give up -- One day the roses of hope will grow Meeting the horizon, Roses that, even plucked, will not die But will bloom and bloom Every single day that passes by.
Ruchi Acharya is an Indian poet and the founder of an international writing community called Wingless Dreamer. She is obsessed with Victorian literature. She thinks all worries are less with wine.
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