Tramplings under the feet

Tramplings under the feet

The place is amok with passers by.

It is a dynamic picture of mobility of lives;

People cross over with careless urgency

They hardly have the time or the will

To look at the pavements; who’d do it?

But if they were to look, they might notice

Dried up crests of blood, kissing the sides

Of the Dirty wall and regretfully extending

Upto the corner of a helpless pavement.


Two days ago, a man was shot here,

He fled in terror and slouched against the wall.

The place was too marketable to have a tombstone

In any case, he was not fit for martyrdom….

So the people had hurriedly cleaned up, now,

Passersby are being told that the dogs had been killed here,

Since they were up barking the whole night.

In a way, that’s what’s has almost happened.


A man spits on the side of the wall;

The red stains travel a long way, and regretfully touch the ground.

Soon they would dry up and turn into crusts.

And then, even the poor dogs

Who had barked all night

Would be forgotten…. Who’d remember it anyway?

Author of post for My father

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