He sat there, near the masjid on a cot
His face crisscrossed in wrinkles
a long, patient artwork
from the 8 decades of an indifferent life
His hands tremble,
as if there are earthquakes
he hides in himself
his eyes burning with
volcanoes that went awry
There’s a broken toy in his lap,
people throw pity, some 2 rupee coins
those who need prayers flick some more
for a desire that is worth millions
The old man sits there,
the world seems hazy to him
it’s as if he’s died long ago
and everything is a Deja Vu on replay
or maybe an illusion, or an anxious thrust
Through his blind eyes,
the old man sees a bright young lad
on his father’s shoulders, the father held him tight
this boy meant the world to him
In the battered toy, he smells fresh pure blood,
it blends with gunpowder, like winds in a desert
That day he remembers clearly, death danced
on the pyre of small demonic kids, and women and men,
and the bright young lad
Who slayed the boy, he is not sure
religion, caste, creed, he doesn’t remember
he didn’t recognize the blood on their hands
they called themselves godmen though
this tune of devastation, brings back thy god,
he is pleased isn’t he, for he’s made this song
For 2 decades he sat across a temple
waiting to hear the answers
for another 2 decades, he waits here at the masjid
he seeks revenge, from whom?
the god maybe, the god whose angels are bold, brutal and black
On this day of fog, he waits to see the reason
of this chill, the numb air, and blank expressions
He waits near the masjid on a cot…
this revenge muttering, scoundrel old man
