Poems - Roja Sinha

Torn Portrait

This isn't the first time You sit there in half light like a cracked portrait, tossed into abandonment into room full of broken chandelier and shattered monuments to mourn together the similar lament of losing parts of oneself in a war which you don't remember volunteering to fight.

It's hard to tell if the tunes of the dirge consoles or intensifies your suffering, yet you keep it on play as the silence otherwise screams too wildly.

You just can't back track to the day when the dark clouds forever changed the sunny playground into a blooded battle field and all the dreamy faces of the children now scarred with the shadow of experience, trying no more to snatch the play ball from their hands but the life from each other.

The true horror of storms isn't in the fact that it is a big black calamity but that it illudes us to believe that the torment is never ending. Every storm isn't the end of the world.

This isn't the first time your portrait has been torn and disheveled. You have been here before, If you are an warrior, try to fight not to defeat but to end the war.

Your portrait is a Masterpiece and an art such as that, can be destroyed down to dust, Yet can never be forgotten through out centuries by the stars.

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