Dates of anger throb
Upon the walls of time
Wounds that’ve never healed,
Yanked from comfortable neglect
Into a minute’s grand silence
So that public men can genuflect.
For it is but a memorable year
And sympathetic flies must buzz around the ear.
What else can they do, but remain
Numbered circles on a page
For a token anniversary homage
That the wise know can never right
Seventy-five years of a blinding light.
So quick, light the candles
And serve the mushroom pie
For men are anyway born to die.
I think of an ancient land of warriors,
Men who wore swords
And flew on horses
Their hair tied in a bun.
All undone from above
In a momentary shiver
A billowing sky and cloud
And thousands dead.
Yet none has paused since,
No mighty nation or general
Knowing perhaps or full well
That glory lies in a burnt-out tale
All forgiven in history’s selective memory
Valorous human acts of infamy.
For men would anyway die
Under an incendiary sky.
Pen Drives 
It’s brilliant… Pain rarely finds such an expression…
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Thank you so much, Kumar. My humble homage in verse form to a devastating memory: August 1945
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Brilliant 👌👌
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Thank you so much🙏
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Simply wow..
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Thank you Arnab 🙏
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I’m reminded of the samurai culture of bushido and how – although they died – it was the world that fell into dishonour.
Beautifully composed- it’s your first poem I’ve ever read.
Do I have your permission to share with our history class students?
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Thank you so much. Of course you can share it. That would be an honour for me
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