There are no more screams heard
From inside houses, and tears
Are not yet spent as much as
Puddles of blood streets bear
But you can see a baby crying by his mother
Abused and slain by some own fellow brother

The ebony night settles thickly
On trees, branches and leaves
And mist that collect on them
Amid blackness' recurring heaves
Is to drip slowly for long, some time after
From edges of twigs, with an evil laughter

When the sun dawns tomorrow
Will twigs open their arms,
Or the exiles brewed within,
On seeing a smile, will ring alarms?
(What was the colour you said?
Did I hear right that was "red"?)

The waning moon stares
With its crumpled drowsy eyes
Before losing all sight,
As feeble rays bid goodbyes --
This night is feared to last long.
(That God made men, could he be wrong?)

The cold city stands crucified
Head hung, with nosedive graph
Of harmony; butchered voices
Defining its unwritten epitaph --
"I was beautiful once and I could see
How life used to come and dance with me"

Embalmed in heavy frozen moments,
Nobody speaks; they're either dead or act
Sane enough, more to realise loss,
To seek revenge than to see beyond cataract
Of enmity and fire their Godfathers fill
Through pretext and encores to go and kill

In the same city, in its centre
You can hear amid mirth and jolly cry
And lamps burning bright, but blind
Making up for a moonless sky --
Echoing in Godfathers' shrine
To eager smiles, "Things are fine"

And as I write this one more verse
Driving away my shame,
To trade on stains of blood of else
And live with lasting blame,
I have little reason to read it aloud
And losing one more to ever be proud