Ananya S Guha



I see the blood
in hands of others
faces of others
smeared like fog
or smog,
I lift myself from clouds
a thin line wavers
as I walk into the existence
of blood

I ask questions
the voice is silent
asks questions
can you rape an eight
year old, six months
the voice is silent
of course, only at
the cost of blood

I saw a gash as a child
it was blood, pink or red
I sucked my finger
blood tastes so different?
today is it still
of an eight years old?
those who tasted, will they
tell me, how different it is
from my infantile dreams
of blood

Mother, how I wonder
what you would have
thought of today’s blood letting
how similar, or different they are
from the partition days, and how
religion tingles in the present,
which is more human mother?
blood or the god, the god of religion?
the god of blood, the blood of god!

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lives in Shillong. He has been writing and publishing his poems for the last thirty five years. He is currently a Regional Director in the Indira Gandhi National Open University.


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