Not yours

Forced calmness you have put over your face.
There is the rattle over there
plundering the people’s gaze.
Hey friend! You are an imagination.
Silence is here. In her little palms cared.
To the days where memories hold on.
My anger and my knives are drawn.
By the breeze of your distant country.
The rage which is now cold, stares.
Beyond the  oblivion, it stays.
Wash the faces and the embodied selves.
It will drain, but such cleansing is of no help.
You are poor. Poor out of the inhumane.
Go tell the merry makers where we store our sins.
Of the calmness forced upon them.
They will think and for you,
unknowingly they will bring.
What is not yours and I go out of words.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi
(The Stories beneath the eyes)

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