by Victor Thoudam 

With a bow in my hand I
shot an arrow
That travels against the air
To its destination
Leaving me in a state of conflict
Was it the muscle of my hand?
That shot the arrow
Or was it my consciousness?
That shot the arrow
Did I know that the darts hurts?
If strike into the flesh.

Is it the memory of war
Which my will erupts,
For the destruction of human kind
With only surviving the power
Or it is the time that destructs
For a new construction.
Again pushes me to the whereabouts
Of the sensual arrow
Would I find the arrow again?
Unhurt to anyone
Or would I find it to someone’s hand
Who can shoot the arrow again

Is it just the money
That hides behind the gun
Then what is it that hides Behind money
Is it the most powerful man?
Who is behind money?
But then also the prostitute of B.O.C
Breathe behind money
Would you tell me somehow?
Why do people call the prostitute ‘kasubi’?
And the most powerful man Chief-Minister?

Why don’t you cuff my hand,
And bring me to the gallows
Because I have seen the photograph of ‘Kangjabi shooting’ I
 feel the tears of their dear ones
Why don’t you chop my heart into pieces
And teach me 1984 of George Orwell
But you will ever remain the chief of uniforms
No one dare to shake off your feet

I have been loyal to my will
Which cannot be exist in a vacuum
If my hand moves with my will
I feel the senses throughout my body
But senselessness is imposing us
Locking us up inside a cage
But senses make the opaque porous
Even a death man provokes our senses.

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