The Bullet didn’t kill me,
My dreams and dignity did.
A revolution was blooming,
On the face of the folded bread inside my left pocket.
My old worn out shoes were shaping the roads for a new tomorrow.
And then, it wasn’t my blood you saw,
It was my dreams, aspirations, hope and love.
You may still smell some hope at the place I fell,
Some stains of dreams may still be there at some corners.
Its been a year now, and I still lay awake in my grave,
I see your hunger for money, and my child’s hunger for food,
I see you sell my sacrifice, my efforts and tears.
I see you walk over me with those new shoes and even newer ideas.
Your dreams now are different than mine,
The ones that may never get you killed.
That piece of bullet didn’t kill me,
My dreams, dignity and your false promises did.
Poet: Bicky Sharma