Saffron Shrouds

By Madiha

Now I see

the plight of the myriad

and the rapture of the scant.

The lestrygonians and the cyclops claim the judgment;

circumspection and comprehension; intuition and information.

Poseidon mocks the Paramount. Paramount?

The Paramount sits in shame, compunctious and stripped.

As the pageant unfolds

mercy divided,

bigotry unabashed,

surveillance handicapped;

they prioritize and epitomize the valor of the cruel

subversion of the weak.

Masses. Terminate. Obliterate. Sit and watch

the dance of subjection, subjugation.

For, there is no Ithaca.

There will be no Ithaca.

This is cold death.

This is rupture.

And when they kill me

for this vocal sin of mine

wrap me in a saffron shroud send me to my deep deep grave and hence, on my tombstone write "Here lies democracy."

By Madiha