My wasteland

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
There is sand all around, and some shrubs
A neat row of brown tents,
And a shiny, tar road with no bends.

 

There is a dried river bed, and scorpions,
But there are no villages or ponds.
Birds do not sing in this wilderness.

 

At night, darkness is pierced by searchlights,
Or by the headlights
Of cars moving in disciplined rows.

 

There are some men – silent, expressionless.
The barrels of their guns glint,
Under the harsh, hot desert sun.

 

Inside and outside stretches the desert vastness
Of sand, scorpions and the sun
And the birds – they do not sing in this wilderness.
 
 ***
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About Abhishek

I will let the blog speak for itself...or, at times, for me. View all posts by Abhishek

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