Author: Ami Asija, Class XI E
The streets lay barren this morning.
Quaking yesterday.
all quiet for now.
the loudest quiet…
Of a breath hitching
an old wound. Re-twitching.
Torn apart.
Clothes.
Bodies.
Souls.
Torn apart.
I stand upon this road.
The smell of blood and bullets lingers still.
Lives and lies spilled upon the hill.
Suffocating air, up in the open grasslands-
Throat choked by hands.
And faith by demands.
Men treated like grains of sand.
Acting on command-
And yet. The street will stand.
The trees will sing of injustice,
the children will recite,
by the passing of the night,
there’ll be arrival of the light.
But the tale sings still,
still here.
A chapter of death,
a warning.
Streets filled with mourning.
The street lies barren this morning.
I’m the craft itself.
A pause. A period. Then a halt.
A certain “art” within,
Yet it’s a flaw, a fault.
Art. A white canvas below,
Waiting for color to bleed in,
Color of love, blush, roses and: blood.
Red’s holding a dead seed in.
My insides, a tube,
My body a brush, going fast and slow
The rhythm paints well, pains well,
Swifting in a twist, a clot, a flow,
I’m an artist unrecognised,
Sentimental. Cramping. Fainting.
In the muse(eum) every month,
Stare at my Pain(ting).
