And We Are Still Dousing Flames

There is nowhere
a country looks into future
with blinkers, and then the
tirade begins. The tyranny of
becoming an agnostic. The dead end
is that there is none. Everything is
horizons of space. Infinity is gawkish
so are stammering ways of the world.

Somewhere, however, there is pain
a stab, a wound and few drops of blood.
Infinitesimal as it may be, it has thunderous
claps. Clap. Clap. Clap.
The blows rain, fells trees and grass withers
into a wan ghost. Animals shriek. Clap.

Then the bellicosity of protests, noises.
A country thunders. The young and the old
the blue and green. Grass refuses to grow.

Stumbling block. The train cannot enter the tunnel.

In its horrific omen protest is death like. Wears a mask
or two. In deep slumber villages burn.

And, we are still dousing flames.

Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong in North East India. He has been writing and publishing poetry for the last thirty years, and his poetry has appeared in numerous online publications. He holds a doctoral on the novels of William Golding and currently is a senior academic in India's Indira Gandhi National Open University. Read other articles by Ananya S..