Hiroshima: A poem by Lopamudra Mallick

 

6 August 1945

The lust for power is cataclysmic.
And Hiroshima has a taste of this.
Standing helplessly, she had beheld her home crumbling down,
like a pack of cards. 
The spasmodic groans of her children reverberated in her ears.
Groping her way through darkness and flames, 
She shrieked in utter pain.
Had you heard?
Listen.
She still moans corralling her children in her arms. 
She has forgiven but not forgotten.
Eons after,
she stands like the oak with her sutured wounds.
The neanderthals had stripped her off, plundered her soul, 
Snapped at her flesh, even her intestines.
She still reminisces -
how she held the bust of her daughter,
struggling to find the other half.
Oh! What Minotaur-like destruction!
The graves proclaimed the end of the war.
Ah! Does it mean the end of agony for Hiroshima?
Some scars- deep scars bleed forever.
With thousands of lanterns set afloat in the Motoyasu River,
Hiroshima silently sheds tears and strifes to resurrect herself.




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