History arrived at the shore
Soon sheaves of paper covered lands
Pens prospected, outlined, outcasted
When they ran out of ink,
They drew blood from new-found vessels
Our stories personal, familial, tribal,
Armed with only a vertical ambition
Comfortable on stone slabs and in speech
Never stood a chance
Never bring the s-word to a pen fight
Evangelists were smart that way
Ascribed creation to the word
Wrote it down, monopolised
Built a temple around it and locked the door
When the blight came,
Custodians of the word were safe
Drinking from springs that welled up within the walls
Trees that grew tall and made men taller
They claimed it all
Drought became us
Turned us into grains of sand
The blithe breeze that poets sung of
Weren’t that kind to us
When they were done caressing their faces
And having their way with the locks of women’s hair,
They turned a new leaf for a new story
And threw ours out of bounds
Our stories spectre-like haunt forests
Perfected grammar in the babble of streams
Practised our argument against jaded hills
Amplified dissent with the rustle of leaves
But we can’t be too careful, now,
Off late we’ve been frequented by wildfires
Ankur is an editor based out of Delhi, India. When he is not editing financial reports and newsletters, he spends most of his spare time reading books, watching Asian cinema and creating humorous fake book titles. Apart from writing poems, Ankur is passionate about photography and filmmaking — all three are bound by his love for images. Ankur occasionally posts his poems and photos on his blog.