one cloudy morning bereft of sun,
few fathers of anarchy caught cold out of nowhere.
of how they should’ve been born cold-blooded,
they devised a cunning mantra of raising the mercury
Then started the incessant beating of drums
made of human skin, framed in more human bones;
and vocal chords buttressed the AK-47’s sweet symphonies.
Comrades, they heard those melodies,
and so they came in marching,
they joined in the lot and never left.
‘Wear these technicolor pants’, the fathers asked of them comrades.
They obeyed and saw it for themselves
the exotic, almost sci-fi aftereffects of wearing these skin-fits.
gave comrades the mystic powers
to hide between bloodstains and sweat-beads,
to harness hopes in congregation,
to swing from victories to defeats,
and back again to the square zero of existence.
Comrades then became cold no more.
Millionaires, and almost superheroes,
they morphed into anything they envisaged.
They outdid volcanoes in thermometers.
With time, they polished themselves
layers after layers
they filed, scrubbed and added subtle hues of deception.
comrades had bought – in stocks-
cough syrups to chase the cold away.
Now that the climate’s changed,
they’re freezing the syrup down.
They’re making ice-cubes
for the next one thousand summers.