A New Land
Alone, as I stand
On the roof, looking
At those distant gleaming lights.
Watching them listlessly for long
Glow and then again go dim.
As if by magic or some hypnotherapy,
They seem as messengers from
Some distant unknown land, bringing
Me tales of sorrow and sadness,
of death and darkness, of mayhem and moans.
I ask, aren’t there anymore the hues
Of spring? doesn’t the red poppy grow
In the lush yellow fields of mustard?
Are no wedding songs sung at nights?
Don’t young girls clap?
And sing, after leaving the bride home?
Don’t you awake to the sound?
Of the Azaan and the soothing sounds of
The temple bells?
Doesn’t my valley resound with?
The harvest songs of my toiling brethren?
Don’t the mountains echo with the
Careless laughter of the naughty
Pink cheeked children?
Doesn’t the valley smell of the
Delirious scent of the narcissist,
When spring dawns?
Is the colour of the snow white?
They answer as if in unison, “no
It has changed its colour.
It is a new valley, with new inhabitants.
