None of them were supposed to be there

None of them were supposed to be there

There's a colorful brook
That flows behind the Kaavia valley
An artist in itself, paints a whole story every time
With its vivid hues, that's all absorbs from the gifted rhythms, that roams there
It comes from the long stretched sky
Hugs the gorgeous leaves of Acer
And then mixes in the flamboyancy of the stream
Whenever I went there the hidden poet reveals itself
Spring out of my stressed lifeline
And opens my rusted left chamber safe
Exchanges every word with some shadow feelings
That used to hypnotize my thin little eyes
And my underdone hand runs on the unfinished pages of verse
And my ink tries to smooth its unfurnished poems

But, it was until that D-day,
when my eyes witnessed the cruel songs
That was released by the drums and cymbals of the gas chambers
That shares a juxtaposed reality from ours, across the border
And my open chamber hyped its hemoglobin
And the flow of my poetic thoughts turned into a blood curdling venom
Somber faces with a dark gloomy aura,
Begged their life, but Goliath group,
Drilled their bones with a permanent scar, on 'Jews'

But there's a time before,
That slaughtering season, when it didn't start
A little boy, sits in front of the barbed wire border
And tries to stop, the rolling down tears
And writes something in a tiny notebook, he has
I don't know, maybe he ink down poems, like me
Or a complaint scroll for the God to read
Or maybe just a repetitive word, Hope, hope and hope and it goes on like this
Dressed in striped pajamas, from head to toe,
Their clothes, his clothes, their earned ones
Were all burned by the armed saviors, in the naked fire
And made them, 'prisoners of the gas chamber'

In the journey of the unknown final day,
Every sharp corner of the mountains, stopped echoing
The creamed voices of teeny-weeny humming birds
The crispy tones of the leaves of sycamore and mountain maples
When it's kissing the fragranced ambience
And even the dreamy music, flowing in the depth of shallow water
The flawless nature's voice stopped
It's only the shivering voices coming from the throats of the cursed lives
High pitched squealing chorus crying, "open the door, please open the door"
And then, all of a sudden every innocent voice lost,
In the mazes of the autumn leaves

Then finally the youthful nature
Regains its shadow of unfathomable enchantress
With all its magical spells, setting up an orchestra
In every molecule, flowing from the top to a vanishing end
And again the artist tries to draw every artistic theory inside its lively body
But in each image, a drop of blood mixes its innocence, My raw ink tried to finish my incomplete ones
But with every word my heart beat was swinging swiftly
Neither the memories in the stepping stones of the brook
Nor my darling's voices from the nest
And not even the third eye vision of the hills
Dragged me to appreciate their treasure chest
But, they said, "none of them were supposed to be there"

-Geet Mazumder

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