AP photo
By
Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi
Death
A soldier dies, but no one bothers.
They think that he gets paid for dying;
And some ideologues argue that
A man with a gun should eventually die,
While paying tribute to a terrorist
In their impressive theories
On Jihad.
Nothing new, only news
For media and viewers that run between,
Dissatisfied employees hectic schedules
And busy housewives’ soups break, and
The TRP fluctuates if slogans are low.
And some political leaders meantime
Speculate- how to make the death rather useful;
And some like shrewd businessmen
Become busy estimating costs per body.
The higher class doesn’t give a damn;
The lower bothers about inflation,
And middle class chooses the middle path:
Investing emotions in creative writing,
And other waits for a biopic on a soldier.
The price of a soldier increases after his death.
Balloon
You have given me a balloon, haven’t you?
By filling air in my stomach.
You said, “my seizures will cure,
If I allow you.”
Now beneath my mound, something crawls.
What happened to your balloon, you assured,
“It will protect.”
I forgot my periods, and now
It is too late.
So stately it ascends, and
My tensions are mounting perceptibly.
Soon it will struggle for breath,
The mere idea chokes me.
The creature will strain and spun,
So quick it happened, outside institution.
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