I have tied green rags on the iron bars, at Hari Niwas, frisking shadows to find,
A trace of my disappeared body.
Not me!
I have combed through control rooms,
Looked, with horror, at bullet ridden familiar faces, as they lay huddled, in unattended corners.
Not me!

I have dug thousands of unnamed graves,
With bare fingernails, brushing corpses,
Bearing cigarette burns,
And no signs of decay.
Not me!
I have returned, to this bridge, every night.
Dunking my head in cold waters, (in vain),

To escape the volley of thunder that flew past the skies.
I have followed a stray bullet, to its conclusion, arriving at the threshold of
A fifteen year old heart.
Not me!