Monday, May 9, 2011

Grief-stricken

All protests begin with tears,
A bleeding of the soul,
When someone dies
The closest cannot but cry
At the cruel reminder
That's how it all ends
In the middle of a book,
When the house is yet to be finished,
The marriage plans still under way,
The grand-daughter on the way,
The monsoon rains round the corner
The crop ready to be harvested;
The normal, natural, even untimely death
Cannot be helped
But when they are slaughtered
Like cattle, fed to the dogs
Dumped like carcasses into mass graves
For speaking a different language
Refusing to be slaves
Then do we still just mourn and move on?

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