Prose

Songs of Baga Mother


Terror upon my brittle children
Wailing all days and nights
They ran towards my arms in tears
Small pale with fright
It’s a song of woes
Here and everywhere in the land

It seems they are eternities away
So distant like myth from fairy tale of corruption
Days of exploded bombs
Nights of rocket launchers
These are the gifts from corrupt demons
What a soothing tragic gift of eternity?

It’s a far fetched tragic
Such is the myth of a killing dove
That blows gale of magicians
Ill-bought-magic-marauders;
Brave freedom flows,

To an unknown heights,
It’s too high to sight people at other side of mountain
Crush in dust by enemies of love;
As they erect some higher steeple.
Condemn this kind of paucity, it exists in hell!
I feel awe-shock-mesmerized.
Oh! Land of bombs and missiles

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