It was a quiet morning, the silence unwilful,
It was not because of the rain, or the scorching heat that hurt at times,
It was something else,
I couldn’t figure out why.
.
Now, the trees that witnessed what went on,
Some outgrew generations past, now standing into the present,
Some with rotting wood where the damp had found a place to grow,
Some, their roots visible on the tarmac and roads.
.
Once, the branches swayed to the winds,
There was a reason to come out to play,
That reason had been taken away,
A whisper had turned into thunder,
The men of a caste began a conquering,
The aftereffects lingered today.
You and I, the benefactors, of an untiring, reckless,
dream of men who overthrow.
.
Wars and sounds of guns were heard,
Even from the distant lands,
The blood spills onto peaceful footage,
And holds hostage their land.
.
In places of war, the pandemic reigns not,
I wonder why that is so.
-shobana-
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SIMPLY SHOBANA 
I love this, Shobana. I often reflect upon having conversations with trees. They’ve seen so much devastation and beauty, over the ages. A beautiful poem, my friend.
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Thank you, Jeff. Yes, they do withstand devastation, ,my friend. Thank you for reading so many of my entries.
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Indeed. You’re most welcome, my friend. It’s always my pleasure to read your work. ☺️
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Thank you.
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Many Many Congratulations..🎉🎊
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Thank you very much:)
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The last two lines left me numb and confused. I think you’ve asked a very valid question. Even misery has a hierarchy level. Beautiful writing that encapsulates the destruction of peace and harmony. 🙂
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Yes, I think you are right about the hierarchy. Thank you, Terveen for your kind words.
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A beautiful poem!
Congratulations 🎉
Already voted. All the best👍👍
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Thank you, KK. Appreciate it very much.
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Well written Shobana..👌🏻👍🏻
All the best..keep going!
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Thanks so much, Athira for your kind wishes. Thank you for reading.
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