“Blood In Those Hands” by Ananya S Guha

Blood In Those Hands

I have thought of many ways inexorable inescapable I have thought of writing poetry matching guns and gun shots the poetry clutches on to a wild moonlight opaque with dreams the gunshots spiral towards a death dealing insolent universe, the poetry spins on its axis and the words are eaten by bizarre choking sounds. Then there is silence a misery which lurches towards an erosion of feeling. Stamped boots. Echo the sounds stamp the feet can words ever give permanence

to the blood in those hands?

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