By Amlan Roy
It was a country,
That retained the maximum autonomy,
In all spheres of administration,
The sweetest incarnation of democracy.
A land blessed,
Brushing its silky tresses,
With combs golden,
Definitely an incongruous place for complaints.
To foreigners,
Citizens submerged in a jar of honey,
So much so,
That they got sick green and screamed for mercy.
But to us,
A place where Schubert's Waltzes,
Would be swallowed by Verdi's requiem.
The elephant would wrap its trunk around the victim's limb,
Tearing it off,
Bones broken,
Smitten with crimson.
The mind drained,
Filled with leisons.
Yet it would sometimes pause,
The brain being injected with royal commands.
A helpless friend,
Suddenly turned into the most vicious fiend.
Famished lions preyed on innocent deers,
When the day died,
Raped by the night.
And Hecate would slowly draw near,
Zarathustra descended from the mountains,
To preach.
Filled with utter contempt,
For the hedonists.
But his teeth were smashed,
By a powerful fist.
Hot sand would rain from the skies,
Turning the lush green fields, the meadows, into a desert.
La Catrina is nigh?
A speeding car,
Feeling high,
Swerved suddenly,
Crashing into a tree,
Fate's 'erroneous' swish?
Perillos looking sorrowfully at Phallaris.
For the treachery?
My friend,
An enigmatic blend,
Of misery and optimism,
Took on the uphill task,
Of ameliorating the torn tents of his countrymen.
He wore a mask,
To hide his torments.
He gave vent,
By speaking with bullets.
He would wince at the sight of blood.
But there was no other way,
His abilities never paid,
To search for paths alternate,
Rather than resigning to counter-carnage.
The stench,
Of decay,
Marred his vision,
Tore through his flesh.
My poor pen,
Would often feign.
Sheer madness,
Trying to glide,
On the rough page,
Filled with creases.
Alarmed by ink,
The insurgent,
The frenzied page would try to stop the onslaught.
Thus, samizdat was the kind saint,
Offering berries to the rodent.
Fruitless raids,
Threats of dire consequences,
Were not enough to send the timid rats scurrying about,
Lest they should become a meal for the hungry cat.
Reckless belligerence,
Liquidated advisory cowardice,
A fine price,
For the desperate drive:
'FREEDOM!'
One night,
After I had dined,
And Arnold Bocklin glared on the walls,
A tap on the door made me rise.
And it was him whom I saw.
"Friend," said I.
"It has been quite a long while,
I often cry."
When I think about those good times,
When the pigeon had the letter of peace,
Tied to its feet.
The muzzling of vox populi,
Leaves us with nothing.
But to silently embrace 'amor fati.'
He answered, "As you see,
The weal is still quite ripe.
Once the pen was glorified,
And fights were scorned at.
Even the midnight bat,
Had a leafy throat.
In anger, the mother often slaps her child,
But often it is seen that rebellion replaces conformity.
Leaving the mother fidgeting restlessly,
In regret.
Ink and blood have lost their voice.
What can we do but bear witness,
To their rejoice?
The door was being battered,
A rodomontade of ravenous voices outside.
We stood up,
Looking at each other,
For one last time.