What should be the final account of everything?: A poem 

Do you think I should repose in which corner, 

if my rest is made grievous solemn by treachery? 

That I should linger in the space of each nook and cranny… 

and not desist to part ways, if the smugness is the hors d’art of evil? 

I am just irate at the liar (Prakash Saint Paul) taking my favourite lions 

and making their haloed jungles dependent on his sin! 

There are, in a deluded world, very few bravehearts, 

each of these are victims of calumny and slander; makes me disgusted! 

Your public ignorance is a failure of education 

there is too much water of treachery, for evil devouring sharks to swim!  

And as the truth has never rained on your drought-besotted lands! 

I am going to place the hottest iron on this irony of morbidity! 

I fuck the history of your books buried in travesties! 

I fuck your present married to lies, demagogue, and false propaganda! 

I fuck your edifices that stand on the bones of victims who stood for the truth! 

All the victory is the manipulation of the wickedest gangrape! 

I know my Kings. The rest of you who seek to reign on fakedoms, 

I cast you for eternity in the wrought iron of chastisement, 

that you should be marked by your own perversities! 

This is my final dictum and diktat; so, everything should have its account!