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Poetry




1) The Sacred Stain

Today, my Khaki is stained,

With something which seems like blood;

For today, my country is being claimed,

With loyal bodies splattered in the mud.

Committing to truths unknown and uncertain,

Their minds, for sure, veiled with a political curtain!

Screaming, slaying, butchering and battling is how they go,

Raping and revolting, is the definition of "patriotism" they know!

Brothers of the same maternal Indian land,

Slaughtering each other on an unwarranted command!

It was just yesterday that a bullet was extracted out of me,

A souvenir of sorts, of the rambunctious killing spree.

For as a soldier, I live, fight and sacrifice only for "our" victory,

But in turn, I've received imperishable scars by the men of this very country!

Theme of the poem: This poem throws light on the plight of communal riots. The poem is yet another military poem. It is being narrated by an army officer who's too saddened by the fact that his very own countrymen are fighting with each other. He compares his duty and loyalty with that of the mobs. The radicals of his country ignore the hardships faced by Army personals, etc., who are sincerely dedicated to serving his country. On one hand, he fights to save the masses of his country, while on the other hand, the men of his country land up massacring each other.

By Jigyasa Krishna.


2) This World


What is this world? What is this world!

You can have all the money, power and fame,

Ruthless aggression and passion in your name,

But with the microcosm of doubt,

With stones and sticks, you hurl and shout.


Anarchy, revolution and lust you crave;

A world where everything and nothing means

the same.

But when the bell of hearing chimes,

You never come down and list your crimes.

You cower in a corner and sulk in shame,

Deserving a comeuppance that never came.


Prosperity, health and luck is yours,

You know the illness and its cures.

But when something unknown arises...

Your knowledge suddenly capsizes?


You sit and complain, and complain and sit,

You criticize everything like a worthless git.

But when you are given power like rockets,

You only care about lining your pockets?


You may control the unholy button

And fawn around like worthless glutton.

But don’t forget, who gave you this land,

For you are just a mirage, on the surface of sand.


What is this world? What is this world!

You can have all the money, power and fame,

Ruthless aggression and passion in your name,

But with the microcosm of doubt,

With stones and sticks you hurl and shout-

You hurl and shout.


By Aaditya Asnani.




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