After the Last Flight
The horizon has assumed the hue of fire
where the river penetrates the sea
or the sea penetrates the river
At first glance it seems nature has adorned herself
with the colour of life itself—red, purplish streaks
swimming all over the lush greenery
bathing the innumerable souls of onlookers
with the hope of a life seeming to promise
warmth and welcome.
It’s not too late though
When the horizon has darkened into a dungeon—walls
made of impenetrable smoke
as ruthless and confident as
the people in power
swallowing like insatiable monsters
filling their entrails with belongings
of the landless, homeless, hapless Rohingyas—people
who dream too, and despair to see those dreams
burnt in the flood of fire—
little remnants of big dreams
dreams of countless lovers whose lives loom large
with the maddening sagas of sterility.
Dreams of countless fathers and mothers
fleeing and escaping from what is theirs
to an uncertain vicinity, clutching at
the hope of survival, only to be awakened
by the still, immobile bodies that float by—
Bodies that have known the scorching heat of hatred
that have tolerated forays of despoilment
that have tasted death-in-life itself,
Bodies—that could have blossomed,
could have learnt the language of love
could have cried against slaughter of their bodies,
crucification of their souls
They kept on floating though
Flattened, crisped, desolate, grey bodies
overtaken by the merciless waves of rage
stony-eyes, perplexed and wondering
In what language does grace fall
over tormented hearts?
So, where should these souls sail
after the last river and sea deny them crossing?
Where should these souls harbour
after the last boats and ferries are burnt down?
And where should these souls anchor
after the last armed men threaten to turn them down?
Date: December 24, 2021