After the Riot

The streets are bare today. I cannot see anyone anywhere on the streets.

There’s a barrow there, upside down, its wheels gazing at the sky, as if it is unaware of whatever happened.

There’s that shop, its mouth wide open; the multi-colored bangles lie on the streets in a thousand pieces; it looks as if the shop gapes at them. Until yesterday, they were her teeth of different colors, today they are all gone.

Until yesterday the houses in that slum did not have fire enough to light their gas; I have heard that the whole slum was destroyed by fire.

The air, moves around the city, and talks to all. I have heard it say, “Oh looted shop, oh broken barrow, you are not alone in this celebration of grief. There are many more with you. We will mourn for all for them. We will indeed, but not now.

Let us first mourn for them who came to loot, and got looted themselves.

Let us mourn for them who got looted of their self-respect, of their dignity, of their happiness, of their souls.

Let us mourn for them who came to loot, but couldn’t loot the city of its history, its civilization, its health, its forests, its air, its water.

Let us mourn for them who looted only some money which is in fact, the most insignificant thing that one can rob a person of.

We will then mourn for you too.

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