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Krish looks back at 2020, when Coronavirus gripped us in a vicious pandemic. An exclusive for Different Truths.
A crushing year, Of fleeing from the spiked protein with pretty hues of Red, white and speckled yellow Helmeted like coloured cauliflower spheres of death And all across the Globe, Strewn bodies that it cooked Lay in makeshift morgues of trailers From pained operatic howls in Milan To the Mughal battlements of Delhi The microbic rampage, Emerged like WW-3 It’s wartime of the unseen, mon amour It’s the siege of the unwelcome, mi querida The Perfect Storm of equal opportunity That ravaged a wealthy Sarah A homeless Mikhail The songwriter named Prine And a medicine man named Ishmael Many a Prime Minister, And a bombastic President, And many an unctuous Senator and Congressman The sartorial splendour of carnage For the destitute, the elite or those with elan or the harbingers of insidious plan Dim those lights of hope as no one could avail from the political clamour The divine comedy of errors from a haranguing despot president who vented diseased spleen and staged a revolutionary coup, Like Don Quixote who fought windmills Lances unsheathed, that failed to plunge Into the bill of human rights The Sun set, The Sun rose Tranquil darts of medicine sprung forth And appeared to quell the malaise and the morose A jab on the right, A jab into the left What remains is a planet face masked by N-95 So here we are still, Traveling the turnpike of misery Cometh the March, Cometh the Hare Springeth the Ides, Springeth those victorious steeds Away from the unholy sights of 2020’s perfect vision
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