The surge of the second wave of the pandemic has been likened to the Mahabharata of a misstep, in this poem, by Krish, exclusively for Different Truths.
In India, there is blowing, The Perfect Storm of equal misery A Mahabharata of epic carnage And like the battlefield Kurukshetra of the Mahabharata The microbe’s rampage are the new arrows of battle Across India, the arrows of the microbe’s unceasing quiver struck leaving heaps of dead so many that a daisy chain of souls Are now gathered for a journey of ascension to the stars the funeral pyres of hot pure orange engulf the morning sunrise and evening sunset’s splendour Lifeless brown tanks of oxygen emptied Couldn’t save the lifeless brown corpses emptied of oxygen The burning diseased bodies leave scores of epitaphs from unknown ashes of bodies and ringed firewood as scarred rectangles The perfect geometry of death At the funeral ground, Neither a priest, nor a family, neither a bouquet nor a wreath Neither a lament, nor a loving goodbye to liniment the dispatched soul the unknown battlefield dead of this new Kurukshetra arise like the armies of the dead in the ancient Mahabharata. The ash ground of the burning dead, like Shiva’s forehead Shiva, the sole denizen, the resident of the house of the dead the long lines of people waiting to die, waiting for Yama or the man on the black bull to lasso their soul There is neither Dharma in this Kurukshetra, Nor an Arjuna, neither a mace nor a charioteer the Krishna who imparted ancient wisdom Went unheeded by the powers that be, And the wrong misstep, the ensuing karma, the whirlwind reaps of the folly of politics and schemers gave birth to the unceasing funeral pyres of the dead It is the perfect storm of the misstep.
Visual by Different Truths
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