The Day of Injustice

 I had been scapegoated

 by the heartless authority,
 That was the day of injustice.
 As I had taken a photo,
 it was just a photo, and obvious.
 It was enough for them,
 to scar my heart.
 They summoned me before them.

 They asked me to enter a room.

 The room, full of scarlet chairs,

 I sat its velvet cushion.

 They looked at my face like

 the agitated hens.

 They were as cruel as Nassian dogs,

 Their views were outdated than

 the folios of Das Capital. 

 They questioned me as if

 farmers wiping their bullocks.

 Their questions were far fetched

 than the Images of Donne.

 I was taking fast in that

 so called day, because the

 day was midst of Ramsan.

 I felt to spit on their face

 instead of outdoor.

 I was innocent as Blake written.

 I told them I'm an Islander,

 and I don't know your fake morals.

 I beseeched them to leave,

 but in vain.
 I expected someone from
 so called Literature.
 None could give a refuge.
 None could read my thoughts,
 they seemed as holy mothers
 and bent headed shepherds.
 But I got a warmth of love
 from my Shadows.

 Now, I'm far away from that hell,
 the hell, full of white long pillars.
 And embodiments of fake morals. 

 But still, I disgust the very name

 .............