Heaven cries for a mother,
Asking a returning cloud to pass the message.
In the roots of the sacred trees hangs a woman,
A beetle's stained slogan murmur in the air.
Look at the warriors, the ones who are not afraid of bullets.
The ones who are not afraid to laugh, while transforming themselves to dreamcatchers 
Inside Tihar's walls.
Like a wheat they die and live,
Feeding hope to yet to be borns.
Riding in hot air ballons they talk of world in new colours,
Forgetting that they are colour blind.
Icecreams taste like medicines they complain, ignoring their canines biting tongues and smearing red.
Sugarcane oysters in pockets they dig every ground to find hope, blue and saggy, just like a poem lost in translation.
The world blink at them with leaves gone brown,
Sinking with the last of them was a mothers wish and a lover's kiss.
They ask us to 
Wipe our fingers on our flag,
And tell to them
Whom will we kill
When there is nobody left.
They ask us 
Why should they practice surrender  
While all they were doing was
Coaxing colours to
come back to our homeland.
They ask us
Why should they sleep in prisons
While all they did was to
grieve along with destroyed homes.
"Call us anti nationals", 
they tremble like the light, 
like fossils of roses,
like notes of National anthem.
They nested their heads in their own blood, feeding themselves wild onions to forget black roofs of their mouths where once freedom of speech resided.
Infront  our unopened doors sits
a news paper bundle,
it's bracelet saffron and bindi green.
This is where the yellow eyelashes of
a self crowned god falls off,
So let's stay close, where our country has storms in place of roofs,
And climb on every straw we find
while drowning in this devil's playground.
Poets, poets...
And here is to poets who teleport others tears into theirs,
Wrap it in a plastic sheet_
Your poems where the lovers unite and embrace each other.
And listen.
Their breath is waiting in your nightstand to be heard.
So that the world could understand
that a shooting star is not just dust,
but pixie dust.
So that every song can make
a child sleep in peace,
outside red buttonhole of blades.
So that dog wails can mark
the loneliness of night as beautiful.
Take your pencils out of pockets,
Sharpeners are waiting.
Papers are burnt,
But you have our skins.
So write. We are waiting.
We are ready.

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