Monday, 21 July 2014

Crimson sleet

It began as a crimson sleet,
A flake of two of burnt skin.
Piloting a few limbs.
Then, it became a storm,
A reverse twister of mangled bodies,
Air to surface missiles of flesh.
Five charred legs fell
On an ox cart in Rozsypne.
They lay among the flower sacks
And pulsated still.
Fifty eyes fell on Hrabove.
They fell among the rebel tents
Dreams still frozen on them.
Ears, hands, fingertips
Fell in Russian land
On machine ploughed fields.
It rained ringing mobiles.
It rained ticking watches.
It rained charred passports.
It rained tourists.
It rained students.
It rained scientists.
As the flesh rain progressed,
Heaps of smoldering meat
Fell everywhere on everyone,
On soldiers, rebels, peasants,
Diplomats, poets, workers,
Singers, writers and street sweepers.
The sky darkened, debris fell,
Ash flew around, vultures appeared.
Slowly the land called Ukraine
And the land called Russia
Bore a carpet of chopped corpses
Over the green meadows
And the sunflower fields.
It rained for ages
Till ice from the Arctic
Made its first move.

Searchers comb sunflowers for plane debri

©Ra Sh

Ra Sh from India translates poems and stories from Indian languages to English published by Oxford University Press, Penguin India etc.  Original poems published in magazines and anthologies.

2 comments:

  1. It is if I lived the terror of limbs, finger tips, shattered fragments of dead hopes and dreams descending on my demure routine in the most dreaded way. The poem is a missile directed to daze oblivion indeed.

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  2. The debris fell on me too. Thanks for the comments.

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