Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Poem on Singur

Singur Saturday

That Saturday,
Creeping through the naked sky
Terror eclipsed sun
Blindly commits suicide.

Blue tongue
Hang on shamefully between
Shameless eunuch jaws.

Morning begins
With Protest Blossoms and
Wordy eruptions.
Morning matures with
Lathis and rifles.
And slangs
-“…suworer bacchha saalaa, aay…”

Mourning morn
Disappears in melancholy
With tears, cries and bloods.

A child looks
Into a vacant patch of loaded sky
Desperately with pale eyes
For something else
Perhaps for a football, a slate
or his slain future

He’s standing
On the ruin of democracy.

The cat walk of justice
On the ramp of “Communism”
Simulates erotic sense of Tatas, Ambanis, Bennis…

There, the tyrants are writing epitaph
For dying people
And writing welcome graphity
For corporate tycoons.

But singers of soil
Are tearing off the glamorous mask
Out of the vulgar face of Development-
Development at the gunpoint!

Special Eviction Zone
Social Eradication Zoo
Soul Erasing Zygote

SEZ’s are being created for
The creators of people’s car.

The other day farmer’s little son would ask
To his father flatly-
“Would you buy that car for me, baba?”
The answerless farmer would answer-
“My dear, I can’t buy back even our life bought by them”

Political power runs by
Rifles and cartridges
And power empowers powerful.
Power is yet to become power of powerless.
Its F … A … R …
That little innocent boy
When he grows up
Then one day he would learn this reality
From his school of life.

A hard evening falls
On the faint furious fields
Of Singur.

Doomed are the people.
Their dim eyes
Stretch wider
And wider
With darkness deepening.