On those rare occasionsWhen Appa came home earlyWe, my sister and IWould walk down to The Gateway of IndiaWith himIn the evening
Running down the slopeTo the roadWith a whistleSmall and plasticTo hailThe raddiwala pick-upBefore he zoomed pastI was reminded ofA different whistle inA different age
Isn’t it outrageousThat the outrageAt murderDepends onSkin colourAnd the colourOf the passport?
One says they diedIn air strikesThe other retorts thatThey had bullet wounds
The truth has perishedWith the hostagesNow it is allNarrative-mongering
It’s Appa’s birthday todayAnd he is not hereTo celebrateI am left with memoriesOf birthdays past:This one from perhapsFifty years ago
With Holocaust HarrisAnd Genocide JoeThe D N CWas quite a show
Nothing could compareWith its Twitter handleEven the Fourth of JulyCouldn’t hold a candle
Had I been AhmedAnd he, meWould he be writing poetry?About the hell that I am inWhile I read what he writesAnd know for sureThat no-oneBut no-oneCan begin to comprehendThe hell I inhabit
We expect the devilTo be devilishSo let’s leaveSatanyahuOut of it
But the rest of usWho loftily professRule of LawThe Geneva ConventionNever AgainWhat…
Last nightWe went to sleepIn the middle ofA thunderstorm
What roused usIn the middle of The nightWas the croaking orchestraOf hundreds of delighted toads
The attempts to describeWhat is beyond description:“Hell beyond imagination”“Dystopic”“Cannot be described in words”