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