Ingrained

 

Ingrained

The wild blue yonder

Smoke surging, pith burnt ajar

Bleak rays escaping dolor.

The moaning roots,

Strewn and weaved and strewn -

Bawling clouds, whimpering trunks,

With a cracked throat drenched in Gore.

Tiny hands-on iron bars — rough and riven,

Once used to caress dreams in the open.

Greeting nightfall in frail segments

Ensued by the iron curtain,

Futile figuring, scoring, and wit,

A fervid demand for justice -

Yet it unfurled again,

Clawed and whipped...

No more can be relived.

Riddhi Chakraborty