Liberated zone, Gujarat and the Pig's farm

For decades and decades
Genocide and foeticide
Like usual words on the newspapers
Printing, read away unnoticed like pepper
On breakfast plates
Of men who know no sweat.

The communists are turning into pigs
The pigs of the “Animal Farm”
Look at Nandigram
The pigs just sent the cadres like swan
To the land where the people have cried
Waiting for rain,
Cursing the piggy government
For being ignored
When the pigs wore
The tag “friends of the poor.”

Out of imitation
They fantasize of industrialization
Oh! Is that a civilization?
Or a definition of globalisation?
Oh your poor men needs no such piggy act
You will remain a scar in their lives
You will be remembered
When every peasant sings the harvest song

Inside the liberated zone,
People shiver with sweat
The Maoists knocks the door
Asking their sons to join the gun battle
In return the shivered hands hand out 500rs
When the shivered hands are paid
200rs per month.
At last with tears they depart their sons
To aim the Kalashnikovs down
At their own village
The cops are being ambushed
And left with words;
“It’s a war and forget winning,
We don’t even know how to fight it.”
The Maoists, they spell a true rebel
Still a threat to the poor men.
Some fled the camp and ran to Andhra
Where they worked as daily wager
They read of their own village being burnt
In the battle.
Boys with SLRs patrolling the streets
Where they should be playing cricket
Like every boys in the rest of country

(The above stanza is based on a recent article in Hindustan Times called 'Liberated Zone'. It is all about the truth and pain that the villagers suffer because of the Maoists. Most affected district of Chhattisgarh because of the rebels is Dantewada.)

The saffron turbaned man
Walking and preaching
The streets of Gandhi
Singing a lullaby to the ones
Who are already sleeping.

Gujarat! your priest Mr. Modi
Is not so Holy.
All he knows is playing Holi
With the mask he wears,
With your blood behind your veil

Gujarat, your fathers and mothers
Are resting looking at your colourful play.
On the red stained playground
You are sleeping after the play…
Don’t you smell blood?
Don’t the screams of death wake you up?
Don’t you feel the heat of the flame
That ceases yesterdays?

Oh! wake up before the preach baptize you.
Wake up! before they saffronize your thoughts.

Inside the stories, a story is still left to tell.
Underneath the ground a rusted needle is left,
A wrong foot will be pricked soon someday.
A flame in the middle is untouched and unseen
Its killing roar silences the passers by.