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Shilpa Harilal Aug 2020
I crumble in fear,
a cold shiver shrivels up my spine,
as your names are yelled across the town.
Though I call you not the same;
Still I see no difference,
And yearn to respect every one of your child

The blood that rushes through my veins,
holds nothing sweet to the name I call;
The very skin and torso you made for me,
does not bear any sign that signals me apart
We brothers are all the same; But its war out there;
cutting the throat; that calls you unalike

I am dragged down to the dust,
beaten to the chill of my spine;
As the bloodshot eyes, holds no mercy,
I give up my physical being, hold no pain;
I understand; the heavy cuts on my flesh aren’t as deep
As the vengeance in those eyes.

The heart that pumps thousand drops of blood,
lies unaware of the name of the God I call;
As I lie strewn on the streets, on your name
I cry, ‘Why so many names you have, God’?
Why couldn’t you be the same, like the heart
that thumps in every man’s chest.
'To be Lynched is a crime,To be poor is a crime, To defend the poor is to plot to overthrow the government ' - Arundhati Roy

— The End —