Mammoth wakes up
That December, the month of lasting cold!
Half-awake, skull-capped, in the lazy sun, that mossy mammoth, in history’s fold
Moss is bristling green, in biting dew, as we know
Not this dull black, as this mammoth has been, over ages; see a very old tired man grow
Compellingly, on the shoulders of his divine debris, above the winters’ snow
A spread of morning pleas, by souls reclining to a distant past
“My great grand mud, many posterity’s blood, so be it, my soul’s daily breakfast”.
Call of faith
The mammoth calls, with an unflagging shout, still five times a day, from his vintage bed
Screeches past that voice, like an arrow thru his sons’ hearts, Caressing blood,
From a quiver rusted
“Come my sons! Rest your restive souls, spent on holy chase, have my cud,
That I burnt into, your divine bread”.
With splintered eyes, mammoth sees, that saffron surf, swell, swell swell …..
Lies an ocean ahead, of thirsts galore, drop by drop, tolls the passion’s bell
Is it some undying discourse, some five centuries old… or so….
Haven’t you seen before, this pleader, pleading and bleeding? ….
Haven’t heard him, so deafening though!
“Extinct every mammoth! Why not you! Lying lazily, on our patch, ravenously feeding!
Uproot, we must, your divine lust, if you not ceding!”
Mammoth’s cherished broods, steadfast rock in midst, how braves the sea,
That swells, swells, swells, beyond the faith, of a starving crusader’s spree
Hands against hands, eyes against eyes, shouts against shouts, creed against creed
“Dare you touch our mammoth, our soul’s pedigree…?
Whose blood is you? Which lasting breed? With blood awash, our holy seed….. !”
“We the Aryan race,
Now we found our face,
Ain’t blood-shy either.
Ours the first-born germ, and that divine chase.
Your mammoth, blaspheming on our God’s chest, living on a doled-out breather.”
Now enflamed, that saffron sea.
Each wave knocks hard, the defiant rock, measures the mammoth’s destiny
As rock gives way, to passion’s flood,
It feeds on felled mammoth’s, flesh and blood.
While still gasping, on their promised land
Mammoth moans, “Was it a sin, to mightily stand, on a history grand?”
Mourning and revelry
On his carcass, stands a living past, dead present and a haunting future
Mammoth dead! How dead? With a minced body and soul…..
Beyond repair, a maimed creed, with any suture!
As the other rejoices; so many voices, triumphant bells, riotously toll
Whose creed won, whose creed lost?
A history stands defeated, amongst dead, a howling ghost.
A sin! A passion!
Beyond rationale, this divine commotion
Will forevermore, cradle and kindle men, their faiths astir
“Jai Shri Ram!”, “Allahu Akbar!”
© 2015 Vikas Chandra