The honest toilers; our ancestors,
collected the stones thrown at them,
and the mud slung at them, to build a house.
They mixed the ingredients with their
sweat and their blood; the color of love
To make it a home.
A few seeds of mistrust evolved into trees of
contempt in the hearts of the second generation.
And with the help of neighbors
they themselves erected a wall of separation.
The nameplate of my home which used to
read, ‘unity’ is rusted and withered since long.
Suspicion crept into our yard and settled
in every corner of the square as if
measuring a division.
I can hear the footsteps of aliens fast
approaching our home, and I’m faced
with a dual challenge; of repairing the
storm lashed doors and of wiping all
the germs of contempt.
I’ll keep the forces of ‘division’ at bay
‘Its a negative process’ said a mathematician.