The Unforgiven.......

The raging sun on the baked skin,
The little beasts with throats parched,
Far away a nightingale sings,
Seems just for those souls wretched.

On the top the cruel master,
All with poise and noise and laughter,
Urges the tired man to walk faster,
And the Unforgiven collapses.

Septic wounds and singeing bruises,
Caked dry with sand and blood,
Wounded souls with none the vices,
Lying asleep in the mud.......

Vidarbha......

Wilted plants in the cracked ground,
With showers refusing to come around,
A countless lives gone without a sound,
Tears and blood wet the barren ground.

Under the tin-roof the heaving breasts,
Crying over the children's wrecks,
Hitting the stolid earth with tightened fists,
As the virgins they slash their wrists.

Warring life itself for the daily bread,
It's harder done than earlier said,
And the lines on the palm the astrologer read,
Long erased in the wretched graves......