It’s the crimson red every fortnight,
it comes in gruesome style.
Massive pits dug for mass disposal,
then they are all gone,
amid tears and fear.
Do we call it by its name?
Fear won’t let us.
Nowhere is safe,
not because we can't outrun the shadows
or the sharp edges they carry,
but because they are everywhere,
different names, all the same evil:
terrorists, bandits, militants, ritualists,
masquerading in shaded faces.
We thought the state would help.
We mocked our predicament; they lost hope,
or perhaps they didn’t—out of boredom,
they have kick-started their own theatre
of interesting war times.
I write in words you won’t understand,
in metaphors where horrors ride
through dangerous times.
I fear being one among
the massive pits dug for mass disposal.
