And sharing,
What will they do,
I mean they,
The three bosses,
Mr.Marxist., Mr.Leninist and Mr.Maoist?
First, I thought of averting the gaze from,
Secondly, I thought of hiding,
As after the coming of the dacoits
And their strange midnightly knock,
People try to cry from the rooftop
Or try to lie in ambushed,
Underneath a cot
Or by the door plank
Or burying deep into the paddies
Lying on the floor.
Similarly, marking them, not in dhoti, kurta and turban
And with the a red paste on the forehead
And a sword,
As were they not,
I saw them in overcoats, pants and shirts
With cheroots on the lips,
The masters going
And gossiping about the spread of Red Communism
Like the Shelley of The cloud,
Taking to Eastern European countries.
On marking them, the three bosses, as resource persons,
Keynote speaker and seminarians,
I fearing within
As what to do with,
Where to hide,
Take the undercover
From those power-handlers,
With their gun speaking though the double barrel,
Power springing from the barrel of the gun,
Their fiery tongue and speeches,
The slogans the comrades and cadres giving,
The salutes they taking,
Red salaam.