You came, mercenaries of the state.
Sensing mortal danger from
Our women and children,
You cut them up as hyenas
Cut and rip lesser animals
That pursue their right
To food, water, and land--
Your bloody vermillion complimented
By your bloodied hand.
A lesser judge, unbeholden to you,
Held you guilty.
A greater one, privy to your privilege,
Understood that for the nation’s good
Its transacting pimps must not allow
A uniform criminal code.
Yet, if a Best Bakery, a Bilkis Bano,
A Gulbarg Society, a Naroda Patiya
Could not be buried into oblivion
By a Nero’s puissant dispensation,
Bathani Tola will not be buried either.
Massacres are never quite done,
And Bhojpjur will be no exception.
An outraged scream and an accusing hand
Burst from the patch of land
Where the women and children fell.
The story they tell
Pierces the peace of the complicit,
And in a wrench of justice
Stir the lordships on the bench.
Come and gather, foot soldiers
Of justice, keeping faith in the right,
Persuade with reason and inspire
With knowledge of the bright
Future that beckons the last.
The killers that kill from fear—
They only have a past.
