Manipur Times

And there is a lover crying,
“I can’t die for love”
He continues,
“We promised to poison ourselves
And she died with the child in her womb
I didn’t poison myself, I was scared to die
So today, I cry, and everyone laughs at me”

And there is a lawyer
In this land of lawlessness
But he farms and grows potatoes
He is happy because he eats the best potatoes

And there come the sex workers
From Namthirok with the virus
They sell their flesh for drugs they abuse
To console their broken past of riots
And poverty.

And the police take away their money
Sometimes they get beaten
If they refuse to suck their timid dicks.
And everyone reads the news
Like it is an obituary.

And the government is busy broadening the road
For the killer commandoes and IRB to escape easily
After their daily crimes.

And for the Sunday poets in Poknafam,
Poverty is their poetry
Death is their ballad
Love is their dope
Freedom is their cry.

And the infamous Chief Minister is famous for his saying;
These fools they want to eat egg
but they don’t want to break the egg

And there is a father and a mother
Who sleep by the Ukhrul road
Since their son got married
They are the one who haunts the dead night

And there are rich
And their sons and daughters
Who love the land in books
While they are being guarded by hawaldars
Yes even their love making is guarded by rifles

And there are villages
Where police does what dacoits do
They rob the shops
They shoot the young bloods
And there the effigies are burning

And there is a singer who steals
And there is a clown they call him politicians
And there is an overdosed kid
they call him “rehab hero”
and there is a widow they call her whore
and there are poets (Us), they call them warraki kabi

and there is a feminist
who believes feminism is the solution
so she preaches to her dying old father

and there is a friend
who divides our beats and tunes
and say we are the folks,
who cry who clap with our heart
And the flamingo is what the world wants to hear

And an alcoholic and a drug addict friend,
Who once was a student
With a dream to invent the best telescope,
Becomes the cheapest life
And the police use such lives on the road
Claiming they are the ones.

And the cobblers are speaking better than us
And live happily under their torn umbrella
Under the hot summer son of Imphal

And there is always a “Joseph’s son”
Sleeping cold and death in the mortuary
And there is always a cremation of unclaimed body

And the kids are beaten up so often
By the police with their rifle butts
Now they sing when a bullet flies above their head
And the rebel owns the editors and newspapers

And for every son everyday is a war
He may or may not come back home
But the parents know where to find him