Poetry:
Usha Sherchan
Unnamed Martyrs
Carrying a heap of success-bound good wishes
Shouldered with numerous message-banks of peace:
From every festival
From every occasion
From every temple-
With the thunderous sound of clapping
And pronounced with the Vedic hymns
Flown up with the sound of holy temple bells
For poor soaring wings of pair of pigeons
For poor the drifted skiers pair of pigeons:
What keeps them informed? Any time!
Some where in the fields
Some where in the risers
Some where in the ranges
Some where in the branches-
The gunshots may find holes in their chests
Their heads may break by the stone balls of pellet-bow
Belly may get shoved with the arrow of a bow,
For they've wings to fly
And to fly for having wings
For the pair of such pigeons
What sense does it make?
For homecoming
Or no returning.
No procession do line up in their death
No revolt in their compulsions
No protest does rise in their in death.
No one'll shed pay homage in their pious memory
No Valmiki is there to write their Ramayana
No Vyas is there to write their Mahabharata
No Homer is there to write their Iliad and Odyssey.
Tacitly they succumb to their deaths
Unnamed martyrs they'd become!
