Poetry #498
(published August 5, 2010)
(published August 5, 2010)
Remains of the Rain
By Friday, the rain was just a memory
Of the waters and silt and
All the flooded houses. The diarrhea
Felt like a last grief, a reminder
Of enduring pain, the broken huts
Stuck to the mud, a humiliated mass
Of straw like a body raped and left for
Dead. Bloated cattle float in the
River, which flows unconcerned
Washing away the
Pyres of the dead, like a sin it
Never committed. The village
Left for the dead
The land forlorn, its people gone.
Of the waters and silt and
All the flooded houses. The diarrhea
Felt like a last grief, a reminder
Of enduring pain, the broken huts
Stuck to the mud, a humiliated mass
Of straw like a body raped and left for
Dead. Bloated cattle float in the
River, which flows unconcerned
Washing away the
Pyres of the dead, like a sin it
Never committed. The village
Left for the dead
The land forlorn, its people gone.
Subhakar Das writes from Guwahati, India "where the Brahmaputra blesses or corrupts its faithful depending on its many moods."
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