Tuesday, October 24, 2017

Santosh Bakaya writes


Section 10  

Suddenly more hordes of people came, fists upraised. 
With venom in their eyes, they looked half crazed. 
I hid in the shadows looking for the curly haired boy,
Could only see the horde heading towards the girl coy.

Forward surged they, in a violent human stream.
Up above circled vultures, as angrily they did scream.
Beaks agape, talons extended, would they rip off her face, 
Gouge out her eyeballs, leaving absolutely no trace?

There was a flurry of activity, with curses interspersed.
Some huddled in corners and in whispers conversed.   
Overhead circled the rapacious vulture. 
In absolute rapture, eerily waited the sepulchre.

The people appeared bent on playing a gory game.
They dragged her away, frothing, fuming, eyes aflame. 
The boy raced after them, shouting her name.
In his heart, hope was only a half flickering flame. 
"She has to be taken back home,” they screamed.  
Such a spine chilling dream he had never dreamed. 
The weeping willows wept, and the poplars swayed.
Sad looking clouds aimlessly, here and there strayed.
 Fog (island)
 Fog (island) -- Mark Dixon

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