By Pragyan Kumud Mukhopadhyay
He walks back from the plain rolled pitch,
White shoes trample grass-lush green rich.
Behind his back, stumps and umpire,
Like we turn our back to God's ire,
Thinking about past, was his rage less?
This time he will hurl with more pace.
Comrade gives pat, others applause,
"This time I will show who is the boss"
His red weapon reaches his hand
Worst memories dotted like sand.
All of a sudden his world tilts.
Conscience's wind hits him like guilts.
Footsteps heavy with repentance,
Memories of night, pitch dark pains.
Why hurt others? Does it make sense?
He wants to walk out of the fence.
Why not the ground under him part?
Reveal crack for him to depart?
Why not black rain drench him like curse?
Why sympathy helps him hide scars?
Hundreds of faces, all strangers,
Do wait for him to pile dangers.
Comrades ask him to do his job.
A valued life he once did rob.
He turns around, starts to run fast.
Compulsively, to do what he must.
Shuns away that guilt, painful thoughts.
We're all but unknowing Sean Abbots.