By Swati Joshi
In my house, three story
live a few people
some I fancy
others I cold shoulder .
It’s a warm weather
with the cold breeze outside.
Roads are tight lipped
with occasional screeches
of Police.
Air seems to have voids
parties calling human aid
but their architect
is wounded
laid back on hospital beds.
While others with the fresh thought of
uncertain disaster
that has gone stale
owing to video games.
The ‘ones’ on Earth
Slaves to the nature
who is avant garde.
Creator of all this acclaimed mess.
She is a Victorian
likes it all tragic
away from bland romantics
she doesn’t like all this snuggly
fake behaviour.
No fan of benevolence
she is our mother
but now evolved
she learns from her offsprings
be it Newton or
someone covered with pall
she will reciprocate
and won't get burdened at all.
Whether it turns out
a struggle within us
to push our brothers down
beneath the bus
or a gift from mother
for being so reckless
we deserve it
so shall take it
without any discomfort.
Look, we are helping with
the knowledge of restoration.
Either with manual or
material endowment.
Here I clicked an undo button
Oh, our false beliefs!
Divide minds,
religious atrocity
to get away again.
Who is the enemy?
Me or you or the mother?
Who is sick of your deeds
And now wants revenge in due.
Let’s stand in our balconies
clap for the benefactors.
Let's light some candles, show fire
to extinguishers.
let's sit in the time machine
go back to when we were free
captivating nature in our face
we will come again in
despair soon
but it doesn't matter.
Deaths are fun
Starvation is fashion.
Thousands of billions
not a matter for retrospection.
This is a pause and not a deletion.
We will come back to the normal
without learning any lesson.
By Swati Joshi
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