Some drink from river full of pillages
churned out of the dying land.
No thanks to the native guns
Smiling at the wretched bodies at will
in an open field. Who tells the story of
the deprived wood, cut when the fibre is
too edible for the elephant’s lunch?
Some sip from state ocean springing
blood, the labourers sweat. What right
has the limbless water? Turning back is
cultural crime. It is a taboo for a stream
to gulp from its generous gift.
And, now the earth is thirsty; the brooks
are dried and the soil is hot. Whose blood
will make a cooling spray? The drunkards