I have tears in my eyes.
I don\’t know what to do with them.
I sit here in my room
with your paper in my hands
reading the gory tale of horror
where a bank manager, a lawyer,
a panwalla and a broker,
all common Indians created
a bonfire of their neighbours.
Roasted them alive in the name of
religion, without feeling the pain
or the fear of the fifty odd
innocents trapped inside
that house, hiding their babies
in their bosoms and wombs,
their fathers, mothers and infirms;
they who could neither fight nor
take flight. Just shout.
And scream and scream as the
searing flames gnawed on their
helpless skins. While their
neighbours outside celebrated
with joy, the victory of their
religion over weak, innocent,
scared and nondescript humans,
like butter into the sacrificial fire.
I want to see that god to whom
this pyre of a sacrifice was
meant to please.
I want to see his face once before I die.
I hope he has tears in his eyes.
And I hope he knows what to do with them.
2 thoughts on “Sacrificial Pyre”
This is one of the most intense poems I have read in a long time…excellent lines …very impressive work, my friend! Wishing you innumerable blessings always…
Beautifully written.. your anguish is palpable and am sure the readers join you in the same. Just one contention.. let us not make God own up the perverted notions we have attributed to him. I feel he would have tears in his eyes too and he wouldnt know what to do with them either..