Can't think of Bodoland any more.
Can't see pictures of men, women and children anymore.
Vacuous looks. Terror struck.
Can't gauge the violence any more.
Or count the numbers dead, displaced.
Can't follow the blame anymore.
Sixty, seventy, hundred.
Gloating newspapers doing the death count.
Can't count anymore.
Can't see or understand, who is to blame.
The people who killed, themselves?
The people who died?
Can't understand the analysis of why it happened any more.
Can't see solutions any more.
Though they pour in everyday.
I think there is a sharp edge in our country.
Once you overstep you fall into a chasm,the valley of death.
We have strange death wishes.
North East India is burning they shout.
What are we doing to douse the fire?
Can't listen or read anymore.
Can't anatomize any more history, sociology, politics.
Want to get off high horses and shout I love you, you.
North East India.
Yet newspapers, magazines won't let me off.
Pictures, reports, TV channels.
Can't throw them off any more.
This is truth.
Can't weep anymore.
Can't write any more.
This is a song, not a poem.
A Deep lament.