There are no
more flowers
left, in this city
bending
under your
concrete heft.
No plastic
imitation can,
distract from
your treacherous
plan.
A sea of corpses
is what I smell.
No lullabies
or lies you tell…
Can abate my pain
or anxiety,
your ballots,
your pellets
all sold to some
master’s loyalty.
From behind
the wall of your guilt,
I can see an imprint
of its wilt.
Its bloom, in my
memory, just a shadow
still. Dark but its edges
red from the kill.
A garden crushed
under this concrete
space…just a lotus
shaped scar now,
in its place.
Anirban Kapil Baishya (17/7/2016)
