Revolution

A hush falls—  

the smell of gunpowder  

blood-smeared streets  

clubs, stones, spears, tear gas  

a column of bullets  

sporadic bombs.

Men caught in ambush  

gruesome images in newspapers  

waves of fear on the radio—  

Theory / Imagination / Rehearsal  

Oh!  

the portrait of revolution now rich with color  

a red mark stamped in the record  

splinters flung from ambush  

blurring across the canvas  

entangled with swords somewhere.

Records raised in battle  

names adapted across layers  

relative to nature  

absolutes explained—  

in hues variegated.

Somewhere remote,  

expression stifled,  

after offering oblations to all,  

a record of revolution opens—  

no divide between ruler and ruled.

Plural yet denying existence,  

miles away from light  

rooted in primal instincts  

an aristocrat  

emerges carrying the torch of revolution  

as the age absorbs voices of the masses.

Sovereignty in power  

becomes breath—  

touching the ground  

accepting the process  

without hanging protest on a cross  

revolution moves.

Originality scorned  

unchanged tales of imitation  

flavors of ethnic supremacy  

placed on anvils  

for those seeking change  

the age’s radiance—  

ungrateful followers,  

masters of fragments  

denying unity in the present  

one who links easily  

into a single garland.

Oh God!  

may your grace shower—  

to deepen memory.