tales of Suchita

Where is the girl
the little one who came to tell me stories.

Where is the boy
the tall one who sat beneath my shadows to rest before heading home.

Where is the wrinkled one
the old lady who heard when I spoke to her of my woes.

Where is the father
who watered my roots with his tears of grief for having lost a child.

The Koyal, the bunny, the ants, the creeper – where are they who made me their home?

Why am I still standing here when all that I held dear
has been destroyed?

You, yes you there, don’t ignore me.

I see your gun, your fire and your hatred.
I see your satisfaction at having killed all that grew here.

On the carcass of my home, you wish
to build your commerce so you can be rich?

Tell me, who told you you’re not already rich because I live?
Who told you they need fuel when hugs from the little one would have kept you warm?
Who told you the only way you can win is through destroying us?

And then you wonder why nothing you touch ever grows.

How can anything flourish when
all you know is how to kill, covet and take without care?

I wish you would show me the same care
that you show your weapons.
After all, I see you oiling your gun,
sharpening your axe and
limbering your body, preparing it for battle.

And with that one blow, you have killed
the last tree standing.
Now all my memories and fruits
must die with me.

I hope your barren land and shadow-less
skies give you whatever it is you have
searched for at the end of a rifle or an axe. I hope your malice
serves you well when you realize
you have actually killed yourself by killing me.

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This is written as part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon