Truly, a Ghost’s Game

 
Been thinking all day, comrade —
maybe I should ask:
on the riverbank of war-blood,
in the hush after murder,
in the stiff-necked duty of fear—
is silence the only good now?
Truth — almost an uninvited guest,
better left outside the door.
 
Let society carry that corpse,
while we breathe easy.
The judge — maybe he’s still
capable of neutrality,
scraping one honest shell
from mud-smeared water.
What lawyer ever refused the pearl
when it gleamed like hunger?
 
And then — night or noon,
in streets or rooms,
in the crowd or alone —
death arrives, so does killing,
like a draft through the skin.
Questions rot on paper,
no one dares read the fine print.
It’s all a ghost’s play now —
daily death-games
under our wide-open eyes.
 
Not assassins, comrade —
ghosts.
Social rot in rags of power.
No chocolates fall from the sky,
no syrupy rasgullas—
only bullets, bombs,
the raped girl dumped back
on the railway track.
 
In gambling dens
blood rises like drunken bets.
Neon citizenship paints the town,
while in backroom video parlours
blue films pump into the veins
of the city’s bastard sons.
 
All of it — ghost-play.
Even the will to live
is a noontide of darkness.
The sickle advances,
its steel whetted;
a single mute chop.
Don’t flail, unlucky man—
democracy’s gagged,
your neck is already
in the guillotine.
 
Raise your head,
inflate your hollow chest;
red runs up the building walls,
sharp blades swing from hammers,
flesh clots in seconds.
 
Jihadi revolutions mean
blood is guaranteed.
Comrades are fewer now—
ghosts more,
pressing their feet
against human feet.