a poem by Mabel Annie Chacko

’twas the riots in progress.
The Police and the Army were out.
Sounds of breaking,
And the smell of smoke,
Had filled the air
Which but an hour ago
Was calm and composed;
Filled with the fragrance of nature.
’twas quiet then;
But now
There is the stillness of a graveyard;
Of a task unfulfilled.
And if ever any sound was made,
’twas of grieving;
Not a leaf moved.
A lot was told about it.
But no one seemed to understand,
That there are no victors in riots and war,
Only loosers… only loosers…