Feature

Vultures of Seventy-One

Iqbal Hossain

keletons don't speak,
They say.
Why then do I hear a clandestine whisper
Echoing through the reek of death,
That chills the air around the mass grave?
Skeletons indeed speak,
Often more eloquently
Than the living dead who would not.

Skulls don't see,
They say.
Why then do I see the grieving eyes
Invisible in the hollowed sockets,
Carved deep in the cranium?
Skulls undeniably see,
Often in vision clearer than a society,
That turns a blind eye
To the horror of yesteryear.

On this delta
Of celestial alluvium,
Freedom was looted once.
Humanity was paraded like a naked prostitute.
The monsters of seventy-one,
In their warped preaching of divine rules and roles,
Ravaged our innocence
Into the sewers of myopic religious arrogance.

Seething with rage,
The murderous zealots danced,
Cloaked in sanctimonious divine decree.
The eyes of the executioners
Festered with hollow insanity.
The sullied civilization
Never knew what evil dwelled in them.

The reincarnated bones of a nation
Stand in the court of our collective conscience.
Plaintiffs, demanding just deserts.
A father's execution,
A sister's rape,
The mutilated soul of a nation,
Ricochet the scream and the victim's wail.

How dare we let ourselves forget?
The hands that rocked the cradle of mankind
Are back!
There is fury in the horizon.
Ominous clouds gather,
As we sit still,
And remain stone-mute.

Hear no evil, see no evil?
Not now,
Not ever again!
A sibling's blood,
A mother's tears,
A sister's shame,
Scream in deafening silence
“Justice now,” “Justice Must.”
Do we hear them?