The bull's-eye on
your chest, the black marker
on death apparel, was
turning red after the shots rang out.
Somewhere in a golden cage a parakeet starts―
shrieking.

And which means, each grain
of the last portrait you―
made would inherit the color
of the dying sun. We were
martyrs bulled by milk of the
religion of the state.
After sometime there will be
no news of you. We will
forget, forget the footsteps
of past, our golds would bloom
in the garden of hate. The mystique
of palace will bask in glory.