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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