Your dreams design,
designs dream.
Your politics invent,
inventions politicize.
Your logic's opinion,
opinion reason,
reason logic.
Your joys mourn,
sorrows rejoice,
poems paint,
paintings poetize.

They ought to be buried.
They ought to be burnt.

Your home's in your mind
having mansions, suites
and beautiful interiors.
You lock all the doors
to block any route of escape.
You lock all the doors
blocking your mind
from entering itself.

You can't locate your family,
your city, your village, your country

where you fear to rise,
fear to lead,
fear that your spine
will be crushed again.
You fear that your brothers
will hang you for selling
their blood to pump oil.
You've no lotion to heal
their wounds.

You are a coward, a scum,
a fallen soldier,
a fly in the lungs
of a cadaver.

I see someone like you talking
to someone like me
in the adjacent room contrived
of natural selection.
There’s no language, no restriction.

Copyright© 2006, Debashish Haar