The Curse of Covid

Here is a poem about the curse of Covid, by Arindam, exclusively for Different Truths.

The sun throws a fistful of blood on the sky,
As the twilight washes it away.
Scattered clouds like blood-stained cottons
Of blood and phlegm of a dying boy,
 
Lies scattered in the Covid ward of a hospital.
At 32, the sole bread earner of
His family departed alone, in a body bag to
The burning ghat. Three mourners waited for
 
Their turn amidst stacks of body bags,
Feeble chants of Ram-Nam-Satya-Hai and
Hori-bol-Hori, were drowned in the
Stench of burning plastic and flesh.
 
A framed photo in his home,
A statistic in his city, state, country,
His father, silent as a tomb,
Cursed his gods, karma, wife –
 
She’d departed five years back, much before
Masked faces, scared relatives, gasping breaths
Helpless people, insensitive politicians, election rallies
And Kumbh Mela, became the new normal.
 
The fire in his hukka and kitchen had extinguished,
His eyes dried of tears; his heart became a lump of
Stone, his death-wish turned down. A living
Corpse, lonely, waiting for death.
 
His throat was parched like a desert,
All his glory and wealth, mere wasteland,
He laughed and laughed, people said he
Lost his mind, was in deep shock, should cry…
 
He laughed and hung an empty photo frame,
The third member of the family, beside his wife and
Son. Forever a remainder, in the margins, ignored –
A curse of Covid, a forgotten, solitary guard of the Pandemic.  
 

Visual by Different Truths