A listener by tradition, by business,
I listened quietly, in silence that hung around me hauntingly,
As memories dragged her, almost by force, into the past, her past.
' I wasn't popular, now, among my townsfolk,
For 'twas with someone beyond the walls that I spoke,
As our love blossomed with every passing day, and every endured night,
So did magnify the hate my own had for me!
But undaunted and indifferent,
Like the sun that must rise every morn,
So did we meet at the break of dawn -
Beyond the hills, beside li'l streams,
Basking in the golden light that hung over the countryside, the heart, the
mind…
But one morning, alas, how I remember the fateful day,
The mist hung heavily o'er the grounds,
But she, whose presence I'd know not by sight, but by the beats of my
heart,
I knew, oh I knew, she was not there!
I looked for her; and I must have tread on every inch of those hills,
But alas, she was nowhere there,
Helpless, desperate, I ran my way back home,
It was less of the fatigue and more of the feeling that
My heart must be full of lead, so heavy it felt!
But my feet froze when I saw my village,
A scene that has ruthlessly sucked the peace out of my days since then,
How it haunts me even today! -
The roofs of every house set ablaze,
The smoke, dust, din, spreading hell and confusion,
Death staring unblinkingly at you scared face,
Wanting to take advantage, of every ounce of fear that would grip your heart…
It's the devil, which looms before us,
But what devil could it be, that
spread such terror among the people?
But that doesn't make a difference, really,
It's not the what I am thinking about, it's the why…
Why this choice of victim?
Why do the people who have the least to do anything but their own affairs,
Be subject to the brutality?
The people!
Alas, that I live takes me by surprise,
That there shouldn't be a reason anyway,
If there was one soul for whom I should breathe, just the one who loved,
cared…'
Those beautiful eyes, so full of innocence,
Sparkle with tears, for having witnessed the wrath of time
A voice as pleasant as hers,
should have to narrate a tale like this, shaking with misery and apprehension…
Is it indeed his will?
Or is it a consequence of a sin, committed in a birth before?