Burial by Ananya S Guha

I am not a silent poet

I have torn the white horse
shreds of blood, in the
maverick self
pools of it black spots
on a hearse
I have broken its back
in milling crowds
they were not gun shots
( I don’t use guns)
I only pierce eyes of the wolf
or head of a pigeon
I have stabbed the horse
white white horse
and today its colours keep
changing in the blow sands
of time. It still lives
though I’ve pierced and beheaded
gave it a burial.

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