Hang the questions high— the ones that the tyrants could never quite look in the eye.
After the pleas, the petitions,
and the prayers offered in the dark,
hope was "reconsidered."
But the sentence remained.
The ideology was buried anyway,
stuck in a head that didn't survive.
Now, someone digs up that dirt.
They take a story of rot—
of a man erased by the soil—
and polish it into a poem.
Commerce picks it up with cold hands.
A billion-dollar contract
is signed in the name of the dead.
So tell me, Valentines:
What exactly are we celebrating?
The thing we buried?
The aesthetic of a poem written
in a month where no birds sing?
Are we honoring the ink?
The tear-stained signature
at the bottom of a cell-block letter:
“From your Valentine.”
the reach of the empire?
Tell me, Valentines—
What is left to toast?
கருத்துகள் இல்லை:
கருத்துரையிடுக