In Justice

I see Bhopal in my dreams.
A city that encloses a demon.
The sky, rainbowless, still
unable to wash off the toxins.
Clicking sound of metal gates
of a Colosseal building, wreck.
Men-flesh packed tightly
around the bones, bloodless.
Hundreds of them, stitching up
the wounds on their scaly skin.
Their heads are bare, voice
a wisper and footsteps calm.
They concentrate on pain
to ward off despair and agony.
Dear brother who has suffered
twenty six eons of pain,
If the only paper you had
was the flesh on your back,
what would you have written
with the motion of your scapulae-
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