Bullets find targets
slower
when all talk seems
harmless.
Words, when
let out on a rainy-day,
dash for a while,
stop to scamper
through charred wood,
pant, bark,
craving for a real pat.
Guns don’t
take aim at them.
A poke on
their butts in jest
is all that’s done,
to see if
the creatures
turn around.
Some do,
wag tails and jump up
to catch what’s
thrown upwards,
munch it, in
mindless meditation
before running
back to their masters.
Some run for life.
But some
piddle on the barrels,
quench all the fire,
before running where
they were headed,
not looking back
even once.
That’s when
their masters
are searched out,
and it takes no time
before guns get
positioned promptly
from the dark,
and bullets come
swooshing,
destined to meet
the target
before it’s late.
..
Jose Varghese is a bilingual writer/editor/translator from India. He is the author…
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