One Excellent Poem by Arik Mitra

 

Perambulators

a war has been brought to us

to children, by children who could not choose

their childhood toys.

 

a war,

one of matrices,

cut and fit in rows and columns,

one of appearances,

length and width of gymnasium hours,

one of the polish of currency notes,

one of algorithms,

but dyings of flesh, of souls have not ceased

dimensions unexplored, unexplained

the violent clinks of bells: of metal

as the perambulators clash

 

those children;

no other noise,

no cries, no screams,

laughter; maniacal, fearfully psychopathic laughter:

there are also three or four year olds

who have sticks and slogans to kill a cat

hiding under a car in parking,

to dominate fellows young and old by tantrums,

to spit in envy when not in spotlight

 

there is no light. There are just the spots,

stains upon those who were once hope,

hope that they'd remove the blemish

that laughter; merciless, psychopathic laughter

 

manufactured continuals,  manufactured wars,

manufactured....children?

Arik Mitra is from Kolkata, West Bengal, India. An IT professional, he has been writing for about two years now. He writes mainly short stories and poetry in English and Bengali (his mother tongue).