Assumption: “Oh, Poets where art thou?” by Sanju Clement

Oh Poets, now,
we don’t have Nature-
delivering lands or Spring
swimming streams for you.
we have many mounts of the dead
like in Mohenjodaro,
many fears hanging faces
like in Guernica
between our daily walk and way
of every up and down life.

but, if your pens are dry, come,
they can have enough blood here!

no parrots, sparrows or mynahs
flying blue sky overhead.
packed demons fall
as explosive-eggs
from their angelic but heartless-
and they will bombard
in our sleeps and symmetries too.

Oh Poets, come,
with your dried-up pens,
they can have enough blood here!

no petals’, dews’ or meadows’
hanging and kissing tales under our feet.
writhing skeletons and wailing skulls
grow everywhere.
our feet now familiar with red cry

and hell well,
know the blood of men,

of animals, of birds, of leaves,

of water, of sky, of fire
and very well know the thick blood of blood
trampled by myrmidon boots,
speared by uniformed bayonets

and senseless bullets.

Oh Poets, come,
with your dried-up pens,
they can have enough blood here!

for our land, for our routes,
for our truths, for our family flowers
and for our black gold,
the eyes and arms of their drones
erase our innocent shadows,
and give our departing breaths
to the already polluted lungs

of News/History.
they fell the breathing breasts of our lands
upon the pristine plates of our faith

and serve them to the mouths

and feelings of our helplessness.

Oh Poets, come here,
come with your dried out and thirsty pens,
they can have revolting blood
from our massacred mass’s mounts.

we don’t want manna
we don’t want miracle
we don’t want martyrs
we don’t want missiles

we don’t want life . . . .

we don’t want this wrenched life.

just let our unsuccessful blood

and unheard tears flow through

the backbones of your pens!

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