If trees could speak,
if tar-paved roads could speak, and petals,
and the files drawn in vowels in office ledgers—
then the trees would say,
without mango groves I am bald-orphaned.
The roads would say,
at the High Court crossing the blood-red palash flowers
are wounded by arrows of cold black coffins.
Sulking petals would float
in the year's tears, in pristine tenderness.
And all would say together...
we will no longer live as witnesses to time;
save them instead—
those innocent tender vowels.
They are forever humiliated on nameplates and office files,
terribly wounded and naked-distorted!
(We exist among them.)
I know, the wounded vowels
will become banyan roots in your new shelter,
where on countless branches will nest like birds
the martyrs' breath and the ribs of their chests.