by R.K. Brojen

In the land of dreamers
death men and women are walking
counting the days of the wars
to find their new days of a new
world. They have straight faces
and walk straight finding their own ways.
They look at each other straight.
They think straight.
They speak straight.
But they are death statues
walking on the ways of complicated darkness.
Within the colourless rays of the selfish
Sun they don’t know their own colour.

If somebody stabs them they don’t feel the pain
because it has been habituated to them. They don’t even know
the colour of their own blood. (Don’t say they are dead, they will get angry. )
They don’t realize the difference between life and death.
The sky covering them is meaningless.
Beneath them they lost their own footprints on their ways
could not be seen and followed them by the others.
For every new battles
the wombs of the experienced mothers
are the training centres of the unborn soldiers.
But the wombs usually burst into pieces
by the kicks of the babies inside.
So, the soldiers die unborn
in the Gynae wards of the hospitals.
The death bodies of the soldiers
will be found scattered and un-cremated
in the morgues of the hospitals
or fields or bushes or mountains.
The mothers die on the beds
or roads or markets
before they see their babies born.
The death mothers wake up
it the middle of the darkened night
and running all the ways possible
holding the burning bamboo lamp
following the falling stars from the sky.
Looking at the death faces of the stars
she is asking about her lost babies
that she has never seen.
Then they stitch their own wombs to give birth
those soldiers again. In the land of dreamers
life and death have the same meaning and same story.

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