your body,
like a stale thought
it rottens under the heat of some forsaken room
some dark room
some distant room
in plains.
the mountains fall in your memory
we betrayed you but
i call myself a poet
i call her too
she calls him too
we betrayed you but
as you chalked your verses
on prison walls
stale with piss
your piss, theirs too
i did cry for you
in my comfortable bedroom
with an italian attached bathroom
i read about you
some days back
that they cut the flesh from your body
and fed you that with salt and pepper
i cried on my wood carved dining table
and did not eat non veg that day
i saw your photograph
in the newspaper
your brain visible and head torn
and you unrecognisable
i cried and my tears fell on my Hp laptop
like drops of water on stones
i heard your slogan
when they fired a bullet in your heart
it made me a poet
like her
like him
i typed your name
and wrote about you
and i even cried
with my favorite flavour of coffee in my hands
i did hear about you
perhaps from some newspaper
or magazine
or some other poet
and believe me
i did cry