Lines addressed to a warrior

colonise me.

          creep into the hollows
          of my landscape—my eyes click lock:
          no more the drawing of the gates.
                        set up your home your office
                        the writing desk and the trading post.
          ignore the sand-brown
          of my skin—a willing blind
          i’ll never know black from white.
                        take me and talk of your finer finish
                        stunned i yield, so script your stories here.

this inner-space.
          adjust the pace and pulse
          of marching armies—and house
          your machine guns, its manuals.
                        populate me with anthems
                        the songs of wrath and those of war.
          draft words that echo
          of gunfire, to accompany
          my lone dance of submission.
                        though prose mad and power crazy, you
                        conquer me, never with malice or manhood.

every territory.

          fill up all my blank skin
          to resound with the strike of scimitars,
          the sadness of success.
                        have all your battles lost, or won,
                        chronicled across my line of down.

(first published in Kavya Bharati)


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