They are a nation

That’s where the road turned left,

behind the thatched tea stall.

Lemons, yellow grape bunch,

hung from net bags, swinging

like breasts, hanging.

Smoke stained tooth and coal taint pots

shared the same old sequel,

of men missing and women birthing

in the dark damn holes

of their inhabited forest land.

A race is born, another one,

of bundled invalids.

Human documents of swinish beings.

They war for a home

and decay for a nation

In between trade secrets

of political wellbeing.

They breed day and night,

an army of fantasies.

Procreating benchmarks of a human kind,

Unregistered,

and crawl beneath the annals of history

devoid a stamped belongingness

of fathers born and land-marks puberal.

Outside the glitzy highways

of pork and rap, flesh and wine

they form a nation,

Castrated.

          
* Remembering the land rights struggles of the displaced in Chengara (in Kerala) and elsewhere.