The Mourning Morning Crowd


Who are these?
Why do they walk here in the dawn?
Flickering shadows,
Drooping their tongues from their jaws,
Frowning empty eye sockets in the skull?
Who are these?

Dawn is breaking open like a fresh wound,
Bleeding thick red; their heads tumble with
Screaming, horrid, dreadful bogusness of tears.

Cowering mutely facing the sky,
O these evil lucks!
Walking alone in a lonesome crowd
Turning away, deserting life,
Crossing the boundaries,
Trampling the earth
Under their tread
Who are these?

Walking in a mourning morning crowd,
Along the blood-lined carriageway?

With thunder flame of pain
They ignite their own silver skulls
And let it burn good
Because they know –
The day will be troubled with storm.

Look at the chasms round their fretted skulls!
Bouts on bouts of pain –
But, ah! What slow relish.
Surely, the living have perished
Walking hell; who are these hellish?

What’s with all the rapping?
The ungentle tapping?
Tapping on the road –
Some familiar sound of
Cadence of footsteps on hardened life.
Are poltergeists announcing their presence?
How long will they morn this deathless death?

Who are these mourning morning evil lucks?

Twitter @bibek_writes


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