Smaranika Chakraborty
Dimapur
Our land burns ablaze with an Unprometheanfire.
She helplessly endures the apocalypse -
A hoarse cataclysmic uproar releases from her charred body,
Scorched canvas of hopes in her bosom.
Nay ! Our land shall not sleep tonight.
The fire turns devastating with every tick of the clock
And bit by bit, bit by bit she sees her end drawing nearer.
Crops metamorphosed into ashes.
Homes dilapidated by engulfing flames.
In a Pandemic where Home is the only safe refuge,
Our land stands as witness
To the miserable plight of our people
Rendered homeless. Displaced. Devastated.
The mute creatures of land and water pay a dear price
For the desperate greed of our "honorable" leaders.
Nay! This fire disseminates no sermon
To cleanse and purge mortal sin .
This fire shall burn and burn and burn,
Until it makes a Wasteland out of the once unsullied life breeding ground.
And one day when you will narrate it as a dexterously embroidered account to your children,
Do not call it as the wrath of Nature;
Let it rather be known in your tapestry of white lies
As the foreplay of calloused hearted leaders,
With their herds of mute sheep,
Satiating their lust for money and minerals .
Years from now, when you will see these apocalyptic images
Of blazing red skies
Shrouded in the dark pall of unceasing smoke,
I wish you realise that this catastrophe could have been evaded,
If you had fearlessly raised your voices.
These images will remain etched on our minds,
As reminder of the dark times
When we were abandoned by the country we had called, "Mother".
