Today Indian Muslims are falling like autumn leaves,
Hot election days or calm winter nights
Spread the same aroma of blood and deaths,
Alien even to age old ‘good’ neighbours,
Barred to beautiful blocks they live and die in ghettos,
Naked, they are lynched even in resorts,
A poor race known only for wrong reasons,
Used, abused, exploited, killed by better brothers.
A few, however, wear mask of bhadralok,
They have painstakingly mastered the art
To be quiet in crushing quakes, floods or fires.
The rest, only wagons, carrying filth of masters’ fiefdom.
Who have betrayed the sinless country lovers?
Poor leaders, shady intelligentsia, paid media and they themselves.
And now the luxuriant lands and sunny skies and wide seas,
Revelling and relishing their routine fall.
(This poem is taken from my collection, shadows of Mourning, Authorspress, 2022, p. 63)
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