hoardes of empty bodies,
shudder in silence.
rotting away,
as clever politicians of dishonest law
trample on them, as they please.
i dream of the trapped souls,
i smell the burns on their skin,
i feel the icy cold touch of death,
like it were my own.
in lands that loathed them,
in streets that mutilated them,
a psychotic city;
above and below humanity.
Tonsing lies near his ambulance,
hardened by the changing winds.
waiting to go home,
through 7 months of changing weather.
“laidip adap e” echos past silver peaks,
of unbroken spirits;
dutiful sons and daughters,
Mothers and fathers,
make their way home to their hills.
scattered pain,
returning emotions,
and searing heartaches glimmer across
as the clock strikes 12,
the young widow,
the strong mother,
the broken father,
stand and wait by the plastered highway
And I shall weep with them,
for my place is by their side.
the army trucks
from the devil’s valley,
the noisy choppers
from the valley of death
took 7 months to start their engines.
7 months to bring them home.
tears run far and wide,
shadowed by a yearning irk,
in between dirty politics and
shallow plots,
in between hope and despair,
the mountains of buried grief;
uttered a collective sigh,
Finally.
carrying garlands,
i look into the eyes of a mother,
whose wait is finally over
And all i see is untowed strength.
empty coffins,
now filled with the bodies of heroes.
The beating calvary makes it way
into the town
And we welcome them home.
“you’re home now, rest easy….
you’re home now…. you’re finally home now”
In a solemn embrace of the weighted coffin,
a mother cradles the weight of her grief,
“I shall bury you behind our house, right next to father”
a young son whispered besides his mother’s lifeless form,
descending into stillness,
As he wrapped the puandum onto the coffin.
the soil of the earth
will wilt a flower,
As they return to the dust they came from.
the soil of the earth
will hold them,
As they become the very soil of our land.
the land will remember its heroes,
their names will rise;
upwards
into the neutral air.
their names will be etched
into our history,
Never to be forgotten.
And today we mourn.
with everything,
We shall mourn
Unto the night- we shall mourn.
Thingkho Le Malcha (TLM) is a traditional method of communication used to send out messages across the Kuki hills during the Anglo-Kuki War,1917-1919... more
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