After more than one year I am again trying my hands in poetry. It might not be perfect, or good enough, but at least I can console myself that I tried.
It was a gust of the moment which made me write this piece. The subject went around my head and at last I was able to produce something.
The dreadful stink filled the room
as the people huddled at the door.
Two bodies lied naked
with their hands tied on the floor.
The guy’s parts were severed
and the girl’s body showed signs of plunder.
What had happened last night?
The people wondered
I was there last night.
When they entered their room by force.
They undressed the guy
and stripped the girl.
Then tying them up they took them to
the middle of room of their very home.
They taped his brows so that
he could see
as they plundered his girl
one by one
she cried she shouted she moaned
but deafness had clouded their eardrums
and they stopped only when
foam spouted out of her mouth
Then they took the guy on
as they drew their
knives, guns and bars
they put the bar between his arse
as he hollered in pain and despair
they dismembered his parts
one by one.
He cried he weltered he panted
he bathed in blood for long
and when he breathed last
they left the room
whistling a song.
Haven’t they wondered a little?
When they plundered the girl
That she once tied a silken string
around their muscular hands
with full of tender love and devotion.
And now they repay her tender
with their luscious plunder.
Haven’t they remembered that?
Not so long
they played with this guy
all day around
and treated him as their own brother
had there being any trouble.
As the guy and girl breathed their last
They sure have wondered
What they wrong have done
To love and killed for it
The heaven is sure for them
But as their elders say,
That their love was bitterly wrong.
They might be from different parents
but their ancestors were one.
They say love is blind
and they don’t two hoots to their ancestors
they died centuries ago, they countered.
And their love is now
As I now stand on doors
with people around me
seeing them being killed for honor.
Their little room being painted red,
with their blood, by their own.
I, who was always there
with open eyes, ears and mouth.
I forget to use my senses then.
As I was scared.
I, the society, must be blamed
for being a meek spectator.
© Tarun Mitra