By Sonia Oinam
'The mourning has not ceased',
another deceased Manipuri whispers,
in a trembling voice,
still trembling with fear, with hurt.
Hurt that wounded the soul,
They fired upon me, while I was toiling and sweating,
in my farm at the foothills,
the conversation continued,
between souls in limbo.
I was lying on my bed, ill and unable to move,
I could not run and they burned me alive.
What about you?
"Me ! I - I - I don't know."
I did not know how to shoot,
I was in school.
I was given a gun to protect myself,
I had to save my family, my village.
I guarded my abandoned house,
I don't know how I died.
May be, I was shot in the gunfight,
tears roll down his face.
I tried to defend my house, my village,
but I died.
Yes, you are dead,
we are all dead.
Souls do not cry,
wipe away your tears, my brother,
there are many of us here.
We all lost our lives,
in the battlefield,
where we did not choose to fight,
where we did not choose to hate each other.
We were framed,
in the game they played.
The game in the name of faith,
in the name of unification,
in the name of ethnic fight,
that blinded us and forced us to pick up guns they bought,
to breed hatred and anger and vengeance.
The vengeance that killed sons and daughters,
an anger that did not spare,
children, women and aged.
We killed each other in the name of creed,
but we failed.
We failed to learn that these are not real,
Our souls ! We mingle here.
In limbo,
and we mourn together,
Every death.
Every deceased Manipuri that join us,
the dead son,
the dead daughter,
the dead mother,
the dead father,
my kinsman.
The dead mourns,
the inhuman acts of mortals,
who mercilessly killed,
A breastfed child,
in a mother's arms.