Rain of Protests

​It rains for hours

in Delhi​!

​

The drops,​ young scholars​​,

​enlighten all with free will;

​they join forces, 

might above ​’em old men

hurling soggy, blood-stained

papers balls, 

The officers call it Section 144​.

​Sound familiar?​​

It rains, relentless,

down on anarchy,

carrying​ vigour from the sea,

​​free will from the plains

and vision from the hills​;

the unified front,

a weather to break​ barriers

and inhuman statutes.​​

The storm ​wash​es​ dirt and grime

from the winter leaves,

​cleanses the leathered

conscience of existence​.​

​It ​washes off masks,

reveals the hidden mob

and their savage tone,​

but let​s​ the blood stains remain​;​

​to ​glow in the glare

​of those ​billion flames

​lit ​for a cause beyond

amendments, acts and atrocity.

It rains for hours

in Delhi!​​​​

Poetic Freedom

​I would retire,

with ease, grace and peace

to the farthest ​nook,

if they serve, every day,

slices of plum cake,

and play Christmas vibes all night.

I would move my world,

if they let me write poems

on church walls, pavements,

and on the ​remaining 

one and a half​ ​pillars of Democracy;

red letters strung together

for all to behold, tread on​...​

​Onward​ toward destiny, 

to the shop window​, any window,

for​ ​a ​taste of ​that ​plum cake​... Freedom!​

​-- Leslie​

Picture Courtesy: Sreetama Bagchi, Goa (2017)

Indian Identity Strife

I​ forgot my ID once,

it is a tree now back home,

in my backyard.

... My identification marks,

​birth scars, dots and dotcoms,

are under a blanket

where it hides, 

alongside some books, 

a moral compass, an ethnic passport,

and the Indian constitution.

They await judgement,

for free will is not theirs,

not anymore,

not on these streets.

-- Leslie

Pic: Courtesy DNA