Tuesday, January 24, 2012


Someone is buried under
All that debris
Of hate words
The skin colour
Is repulsive
The height is not right
The pallu hangs
Down the wrong shoulder
The language is full
Of reprehensible loans
Besides, being spoken
Through the nose
One of us
Is equal
To ten of them
They cannot have enough of gods
Who are as frail as any of them
And constantly at war ---
Yet when they cry
Someone rises to the surface
No different from us.

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