The murmur inside
outside is warm
the murmur is unceasing
I am spun by it’s loquacity
its wavering tail tapers into
a signature of unceasing
murmur, I take the tapering tail
look outside, read papers and
see dead signs of politics.
We can’t forget Pulwama
how can we, as soldiers die
like cattle, tethered to a storm
the murmur is unceasing
A voice raises: War?
We murmur hatred
We murmur war
We murmur truce
We hate, they hate
Us and them whisper
We can go nuclear
even as millions starve
millions remain pot holed
A constant murmur deadens me into
a rat hole.

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..