The Riot

The street was deserted, like a desert Where the hot wind blows from no Where and beat the faces of traveler The street lights stand like convicts Waiting for the noose to be tightened Around their necks. Shame faced. The flies whine around the corpse Lying in the middle of the road. Head crushed. Slowly getting rotten. Cars passing with windows shut. Barrel of guns peep through holes Of walls made of bricks and stones. Silence of a graveyard prevails all Around the town. An empty omen. Banners are sleeping like hungry Beggars from the top of poles and Often feared by night birds roaming The building tops for flying moths. The riot is on. At the edge of the Town a man with beard is killed. The activist was a drunk and tired. The morning papers have this news.