By Rajababu

The place is amok with passers by.
It is a dynamic picture of mobility of lives;
People cross over with careless urgency
They hardly have the time or the will
To look at the pavements; who'd do it?
But if they were to look, they might notice
Dried up crests of blood, kissing the sides
Of the Dirty wall and regretfully extending
Upto the corner of a helpless pavement.


Two days ago, a man was shot here,
He fled in terror and slouched against the wall.
The place was too marketable to have a tombstone
In any case, he was not fit for martyrdom..
So the people had hurriedly cleaned up, now,
Passersby are being told that the dogs had been killed here,
Since they were up barking the whole night.
In a way, that's what's has almost happened.


A man spits on the side of the wall;
The red stains travel a long way, and regretfully touch the ground.
Soon they would dry up and turn into crusts.
And then, even the poor dogs
Who had barked all night
Would be forgotten.. Who'd remember it anyway?


-A poem by Rajababu.