A GUNSHOT

The colour of dead black skin

Was visible in the bright orange light

Cavities created piercing the flesh.

That was an overwhelming catastrophe.

He was dozing between pillows,

Grandpa’s gramophone played,

A well known ghazal.

His sister was making masala tea,

One of her merry time hobbies.

The nearby gunshot made her tea spill,

Terror saddled without notice

It didn’t finish in a shot.

Rather, it went on

With no place for the blood to flow out.

Cotton from the pillows formed designs

Of the modern world.

The cold-hearted barbarians

Camouflaged as humans,

Thirsty for their own brother’s blood

Smashed the fingers still holding the tea cup,

And moved their way against God’s will.