The Lady of Justice has shed her blindfold, I hear. Could she finally see the sound of our voices, trapped beneath her feet? Could she see the foetid stains of innocent blood on her saree? The tender skin of lifeless children, The rhymes of these victims pleading for sunshine and rainbows? The smell of gunpowder weighs heavy on our dignity, A metaphor for Palestine, Bastar Are they visible? Can she not see the stain in her saree? Will she turn back to witness the hands of the perpetrator, Covered in excreta and prejudice, Emerging from the deepest latrines of civilisation, Hiding in the shadow of her veil? Can she witness the piles of dirt on the graves of Stan Swamy and G.N. Saibaba, Made in her name? Does she not see the burns across her body from the heat of our anger? Does she not frown at the stench of greed, Dripping from the saffron hands that shed her blindfold? Could she at least comb her hair while gazing in the mirror, Or is the poor puppet denied that privilege too?
