Anhad ka Baaja

Your poem is perfect, do write more, says one Your poem is just prose, stop writing this bilge, says another Your poem is poignant Your poem is puerile Pithy Pathetic Someone writes a bludgeon poem 

In my dream, I saw the Tricolour Fluttering in the breeze I looked at it with fondness And my mind was quite at ease Then as I watched, I saw with horror The saffron colour spread A Unicolour was

Schools are open; it’s just that the students are not attending Shops are open; it’s just that the customers are not buying Restaurants are open; it’s just that the diners are not eating Mosques are

Rivers are dammed and villages submerged  For the Greater Common Good Trees are cut and roads are laid For the Greater Common Good Slums are cleared and parks are made For the Greater Common Good

I write to mourn Asrar mowed down by pellets at eighteen Mowed down at eighteen Pellets mow you down, don’t they? Imagine I were writing about the death of my child Would I pause here? Could I bear