Violence in the morning

 by Adukuri Jagannath Rao

 

I see rain behind the white clouds, wet breeze beyond the hills . Yesterday's rain-puddles are now mere patches of wet on the mud road. A monster tree carpet-bombed the road with tiny violet fruits which squished like violent blood under the morning walkers' feet.

Other images fell from above. Like pieces of rubble that fell from the house in construction in your morning walk. He who knew my secrets is dead first in the field and then in his house,his own secrets in the lock- and- key of my aliveness.

A droning machine which drew out the earth's blood with its long arms in order to quench people's thirst .Groups of stone cutters who killed the mountains for a living .A white temple which sang its God songs from its loud mouth in the morning.The house workers who had no house shifted their house things to another house ,everything on their heads and nothing over their heads.

An electric mosquito swatter promising peace in sleep leaves blood on our hands.There is violence in the morning, violence in the air, violence in thoughts and words.

Violence is violet fruits,stone-cutters who killed the mountains for a living, loud temple songs, rubble from buildings, drilling machines that tore the earth, mosquito swatting machines, people dying with your secrets.