Twentysix Eleven 26/11
My speech dead in my throat.
by Satheesan Rangorath
My words are stagnant in my pen.
My thoughts frenzied, deranged.
I am afraid to recollect scenes.
As day goes by, they add on lies.
Khans, Mushreffs, n’ Sardari’s,
Ghillanies still blood thirsty,
mongering war for Vulture’s feast.
Still they live in an era of Ghori,
Attack all around as Gazni.
Spitting bullets on innocents,
Terror (jihad) in name of religion.
Bled we lie on an arrow bed.
Composed we fold our hands.
Sad smile on face is not cowardice.
It is divine glow of our courage.
Blood decked, turned bloody flowers.
Hibiscus blooms in every heart.
With blood stains, sunrise everyday,
until perpetrators are punished.
A nation of make believers,
loves to dance on holocaust.
Their leaders spit hate on freedom,
Wearing a turban of indecency
We just wish to say a prayer for all,
By lighting a candle in our heart.
My tears flow incessant until then,
those fallen flowers are consecrated