The ghost in the flying casket
switched the engines to stop.
The day was too hot;
they wanted a nap.
The faces converged,
solemn and mission ready;
looked at the charred remains
and took the oath of
total obscurity.
The pilots were at fault,
told the report:
yet never said those words.
It only said there was no
mechanical fault.
No blame game,
after all, it is business.
A few lives lost in the sky
should never erode
the investors’ wealth.
O those rats still burrow
into the ground.
A call from the ivory tower
shall tell them to stop.
They are now fed and content,
offshore bank balances
kissing the moon\'s buttock.
If blood has to be shed,
let that be in the skies:
passengers buy tickets
for perambulation,
not guarantee-of-life.
O ghosts of charred remains,
I pray for forgiveness.
My English, charred and impotent,
is less eloquent than your silent words.
Can it ever describe
how you felt:
when the casket burst in flames,
when it dawned on you,
you were breathing your last,
or you would return to your loved ones-
Never?
O Captain, why can\'t you take the stand?
Don\'t you hear the cries of dead and alive?
Why do you want to be the hero
bearing the burden of ghosts?
But I forget,
your charred remains in the wreckage.
When the gavel shall hit the table,
\'Guilty\' shall be written against your name;
yet, you shall be the unsung hero
for saving the business.