Another War Dispatch From the Front

The utensils in my

Kitchen; they are

a routed army in

disarray.

Some lost, feared dead

Others overused.

Aged before age.

Some shell shocked

At abuse

The lost armour

Finds unseen targets;

Unclaimed bones

Are sometimes rudely

Shaken by that

Nocturnal apostate,

The lizard.

A new grave digger

Has arrived last

Wednesday: a hairy

Thick skinned rat.

But cockroaches;

First claimants

Of forsaken battlefields

Are now the new guerrillas

Of their liberation.

The battle ended

Long back

The civil war

Now tears my kitchen

Apart.

Kitchens and countries

They are the same:

All battlefields, heavily mined.

No Ashokas now change

In the middle of battle.

They merely cook, like me,

Their next meal.