Scorching bon fires

This summer is unlike any other. It burns hole in the
Mind and heart—and scalds the tiny veins of skin. There is
death in the air and smoke hangs heavy. The dead
are piled up in sheets, waiting—while the undead
walk the deserted streets, benumbed; streets under
curfew, joy gone out of lives. Wailings of the sirens of
the ambulance or
cop-cars, unsettling, while the birds fly off in
the coppery vault, taunting; the sun is angry!
The spectacle is on, as usual, grim, grimmer!
TV blares the predetermined lines of
sterile arguments and rackets, while
the hospitals and homes gasp, in quarantined
gated communities, across the geographies.
Like a noir film, the shadows whisper, in semi-lit
alleys, with dead ends, ruins.
And,
the dead, memory-keepers claim,
will sure rise up together soon,
like an army of leaping specters, hungry
—as Rome did/ does; A Rome when Nero watched, and it burnt down, in scorching fires that have left a long trail in history; a trail that cannot be erased—
for answers from the living!

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