The wind is calm and the rain is drizzling.
The sun is half sunken into the mountains
The shallow river is black like hiding beneath a veil
Only the sound of streaming pebbles towards its flow
Water droplets dripping from the banyan leaves
Dripping on the road where you lie
With a knife, stabbed, on your back.
Every falling droplet is a ticking of time
For your losing soul.
You hear a sound of boots
Stepping on the road, ahead of you.
You lift your head with such pain that you moan.
Your hand against the pool of blood, from your heart,
Helping you to put yourself upward to see an old friend
Your eyes squeeze in surprise to see an old enemy friend
You seem to recall your words;
“To kill your enemy you have to make friends.”
Every footstep I make, you slip backward.
Your life is running out on this very road you ruled
I walk closer and closer.
You seem helpless but still spitting blood on my boots.
But this time your aim is not as good as earlier
(You used to love spitting on my face…)
You seem surprise to see my empty hands
To help you grab back your half death life…
I smile like I see a stranger on a road to a funeral.
(Yes! It is indeed a funeral)
You are silent like a lamb but fills with shame and fear
You know I carry a revolver with six bullets in it
Anyone of it is written with your name you know
But I am not triggering it anymore to blow your head
Your tears seem honest enough and your hands tremble
I take you back to life like soldiers helping another in war.
You are grateful to me
I wash you with hot water
While you tell me who stabbed you
You tell me your bones shivered
When the tip of the knife drills through it…
I too know how it feels
So you say “thank you”
But you know no words are needed to me
I have been numb for years
There are layers of hatred and pain covering my bare heart
Nothing can prick me except with blood in my own hands

We go on!

My smiles are not telling you anything about past
My bullets are no more aiming at your heart
You seem to love my hut and running on the empty fields
You are back to the friend I loved once
You cook we eat together
I dig a pool we hide from the sun together
Over a cup of tea
We argue of things we have never argued before
With a cup of tea
We browse the newspaper skipping the front page
The front page is for your disappearance
Disappearance of a young man who steals publicly
Disappearance of a friend who kill friends
Disappearance of a lover who steals human thought
Disappearance of a pretender and traitor
Disappearance of a public figure with many responsibilities
Over a cup of tea
They must be wondering for your death body
Over a cup of tea
You tell me your story why you don’t want to go back
As if I know nothing of you
I smile; you know what a smile can mean.

Days gone by,
Season changes, I change
Clouds drifting from dull sky to clearer sky
Birds flying, leaves falling,
Tears crying somewhere
I change like a potter’s pot
From sphere to cylinder
From thick cup to large and tall flower vase
But I remain clay
Earlier soft, now hard and seasoned in fire
So over a cup of tea
I shoot you down with all six bullets
The newspaper is all splattered with your blood
I cover your face not to see
The smile I brought back on your lips
I burry you in the pool
I dug where we hide from the sun together
Mother earth has swallowed you!
I put a tombstone above you
With an epitaph of my own bloody hand;

“To kill an enemy
You have to make friends.
Hope you rest in peace.
Ghost of This land, William the Preach.
Expired on 28th, October, 2007

Revelation is not expected
Brutally shot with six bullets.”

I am leaving you all alone underneath this soil
I know you are loving it
After the heated six fired bullets is inside you.
You are tamed now
Like a new born calf being held and roped.
I turn my head and turn on my radio.
White noise! …Then
Old Woody Guthrie is singing Tom Joad;
“They stood on a mountain and they looked to the west,
And it looked like the Promised Land.
That bright green valley with a river running through,
There was work for every single hand, they thought,
There was work for every single hand.”

PS : The last five lines are taken from Woody Guthrie's "Tom Joad."

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