The Colour of Blood

Why this weeping and wailing
and beating of chests,
mass rallies and protests,
just because seven Pandits
of remote Sangrampora
were done to death?
Haven’t Muslims too
been maimed and killed,
why then does nobody mourn them?
Is their blood white,
is it cheap,
is it trite?

I have no answer
why nowadays
they do not mourn their dead
in the valley accursed,
nor why,
if they took to violence
and chose to kill
people of my faith,
they, as well,
turned their guns
on their own
daughters and sons.
But I know that their blood,
which thirsts for more blood,
cannot but be hot and red,
and surely not cheap
if it buys them martyrdom in a heap.
But I grieve and cry
as bitterly for them
as for the seven
and many others
whose precious lives
were snuffed out
in a betrayal
without parallel.

After all 
while I am a victim
of their violent design
they themselves
are their own victims,
such alas!
being destiny’s wild whims.

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