When you raise
The question of peace
A white dove hovers,
Only, the red is against
The background of a fierce
Sky , silhouetted with crimson
As if to say,
That love is not enough;
Bereft of the claim
That you are a mediator of peace,
Let sabre guns rattle
And, shred peace to tears
Only, let the white dove
Rise phoenix like,
A strange predator of silence;
Souls, disquieted-
Like this one, a poem is prayer
Lifted gently
Out of orchestration of love,
Irradiating out of benevolences
The dove keeps hovering
Gives a gentle reminder
To the absolution of
A redefined, peace
But who will understand
That words are tormented
Like peace, by bullets?
Direct guns against them,
So that the fallen word
Is martyred;
Comes hurtling down.
A poem.
Torch of stupendous light.
Maimed, struggling for
An inordinate existence…