The human torch

When the young man burns like a tar torch
At the city square,
The placard holding mobs
Cheer him on, and shout –
‘Down, down.’ No one really knows
Who or what is to be pulled down.
 
The young man who burned like a torch
Did not know who lit him up
Or who basks in his orange glow.
The burning moths and tar,
Creates a big mess; water cannons
Come later to clean up the square.
 
On the bright morning after the night
(When the youth had burned like a torch)
Tourists click pictures of their lovers,
The soldiers practice the bass band,
And all passers-by wonder why
The square looks so clean today.
 
And later that night, when the TV shows the burning
And the kid asks, ‘how did he catch fire?’
We quickly change the channel,
And wonder, lazily, why was it
That he burned in a crimson-orange blaze, or,
What the heck was written on the placard?
 
***
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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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