Wrapped in a shroud
the man in the coffin,
lay buried under
a clod of earth,
his spirit hovering
incessantly;
a cloud pouring rain
asked, why the Iraqi children
were crying out in horrific pain?
The essence of camphor
questioned the existence
of chemicals,
when the entire world
(Blix included)
had cried, ’No war!’
The sea splayed angrily
against the rocks, mangled flesh and armoury
seething within its debris.
the moon waned
its luminous glow,
unable to bear the continual flow
of human blood on earth;
there were no dearth
of voices from cyber space
crying, ‘colossus brute
watch your pace!’
but you strode on
—-unfazad;
the smell of oil
a perfect foil
for your plans.
Slowly, you reduce land to territory,
a people to subject,
creating minefields
in minds;
white doves flutter helplessly
as your men embark
on an anarchy,
a scarring of the psyche
that history will never forget
nor the people ever relent.
And the night lay
engulfed in sorrow,
awaiting a greater dawn
tinged with a pink hope
in the morrow,
when the diminished people
would rise,
spelling the demise
of power;
to this hour,
the sun dedicated
its bloody sunset.

— Sagari Chhabra