I looked out the window

At the early morning light

That unusually laid low,

My routine walk didn’t

Feel the same,

There weren’t any

Red-whiskered bulbuls

Calling out my name,

The wind was perhaps

At a different place,

Uphill windmills kept

Mum about its trace.

 

There was silence

And stillness around,

Except for some heavy

Machinery sound,

The teaks were still

And so were the neem,

Their silence seemed

Like silent screams.

 

I trudged down the hill,

And at a gruesome curve,

My heartbeat almost

Dropped to nil;

The brawny sandalwoods

Weren’t the same as

They previously stood,

They were the heart

Of the woods.

 

One amongst the

Dead and dying spoke to me,

Furiously and painfully,

‘Where’s the other

Half of me?

Why don’t you just

Let us be?’