His Poetry

One fine soft spoken poet told me,
“This is not poetry
You shouldn’t use words like gun, bombs
Prostitution, revolution, corruption.
Poetry should sense melancholy
It should have a rhythm of silence
It should rhyme..say..like
At Tidim Road you see green at both sides
And the fields connect the mountains
Nature has beautiful symmetry , You know?”

Later one fine day,
I went to the mortuary to identify his body
His poems could escape from violence
But his body failed to do so
So he died with 7 bullets on his chest.
And his death rhymes with my poetry
And I wrote it in one of my sleepless nights