NANDIGRAM,
THE MOANING VILLAGE
Dr. Y. K. Sharma
This is parish of Nandigram,
Bengal’s flowerless garden,
The furnace of hope
Where deaf and dumb men inhabit,
A narrow, disturbed, burning grave.
Here I see the charging comrades,
But the workers, in tatters,
Digging their hands down the dustbin
marking on him
The tag of poverty.
I see the fast lorries and the
Dead bodies
Who are packed in them,
Crawl over torturous mud and dirt,
Waiting for their cruel comrades to relieve them.
I see clanking, creaking guns
Holed the bodies of toiling masses,
Like a rag.
Here time crumble
Over lifeless shadows.
It dumps on the cadaver of merit
Now being gulped
By the merchants of death
Like a goblin ready to burst
By brutal barrenness.
I breathe the noxious of the cruel air
Ready to bum my lungs
As dead eyed maidens
Ride on carcass of bulls,
Pass coarse smiles.
Crude eyes gaze hard
On my white kurta,
Now reddened by the falling farmers,
Wailing toward the starless sky
Silently praying for mercy.
The fragrance of our land
Is destroyed by the fusillade
Of the wanting comrades,
And the nation is moving the wheel
On which blood is layered.
This is not a garden
This is a live graveyard
Where hopes of the masses are buried
It is a victory day for the comrades
Celebrated with the blood of innocent.
O God, help us,
As they do not know
What they are doing,
Or they are also the one
Who are brutalized by fellow comrades.
O God, deluge your brutal justice
As we are here in a failing state
Where threatening revolutionaries
Dance by night
O God, save us.