Children in dozens
bombed each day
add to thousands in no time
but there is no one left
to sing the parting song
as they are laid to rest
the poets
who would have rent the air
wailing like the wind
rushing through the groves
have long been taken care of
i weep for myself
at the theft of my heart
feeling no longer numb
for victims of Babiy Yar –
see what the rogues have done to me
may fire brimstone ashes
rain on the star of david, unfurled
waved aloft by revengeful usurers
may the Anna Franks of Gaza
resurrect to life
that day i will sing
my song of penance
Vidyarthy Chatterjee is a veteran writer-critic based in Culcutta
