Poetry:
Shreeom Rodan
Answerless
I asked him
where he felt the pain.
He turned his head away
and didn’t want to answer,
then we all asked together,
"Is it you who has the pain?"
After a short silence
he fired a counter-question:
Don’t you ever feel pain?
The beliefs sown yesterday
haven't fruited even a bit;
it has been long since we set out,
but haven't at all moved ahead.
Yesterday's dreams are all recurring;
why do you enquire
only about me?
The nation is flowing as water
and is diminishing as soil.
Over toast proposals,
the broker of words
sitting on revolving chairs,
are amending the points of accord
to delete notices
of water having flown,
of soil having been carried away.
Do you know?
To those who mourn on the day of demise
you ought to ask the definition of pain!
