Poetry

Why did your hand 
become the fist? 
You were thinking about the indignities 
heaped upon the lake, 
when you were retrieving a song 
of freedom from the depth of questions. 
 
There was no capitulation. 
You went on opening the congealed- 
blobs of blood to know 
the keynote of violence. 
 
The sectarian hate. 
It outlives the love of brotherhood. 
You want to go back to, from where 
the jungle starts. It had swept 
away the snow-white young 
peaks. 
 
Footprints of some movement. 
Can you see that?