Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Hiroshima...

That mushroom
Grown and spread...
An evocation to the dead...
Perhaps can't be seen...
Now that the city is clean
And glossy tiles and growing green
All had put a layer of happiness
Now one can't find even miniscule trace
Of ashes...grayed hair...rigor mortis...
Lakes filled with stilled floating fish...
Of children lifeless in perambulators...
Of fusion-fission sending jitters...
Of flowers discolored in a wink of an eye...
Of grass burnt like hay...pavements black dyed...

Another August six comes to find
Nuclearheads stacked up in horrendous lines...
In arsenals...warehouses...kitchens of power
Cooking a deadly concoction...O dear!

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