Corpses on the calendar
Streams of blood on the calendar
Hunger, murders, flesh looting, Bombs, wars, politics….
Impotent national sports
And sapless international news:
Unable to bear these
Like an Indian bride
The calendar hanged itself
Silently in the chamber of history:
Hanging lifeless, the calendar stinks
Like mean human lives:
In the post-mortem report
This they found:
The blue figure like entrails
The so-called workdays
Spread over like the burdensome common lives:
The red-figured patches on it
The so-called holidays for you
Like the blood-drops of hunted forest-lives shot dead:
By mistake if any blue number folds its fist
It will be a red figure
The so-called optional holiday.
The calendar hanged itself
Then why these people with heads bent down
In offices, factories and fields
Toil hard like drudges and groan
As if they hanged themselves-
In all the six continents,
The calendars are motionless
A dreadful sight.
