Scything

Why did your hand
become the fist?
You were thinking about the indignities
heaped upon the lake,
when you were retrieving a song
of freedom from the depth of questions.

There was no capitulation.
You went on opening the congealed-
blobs of blood to know
the keynote of violence.

The sectarian hate.
It outlives the love of brotherhood.
You want to go back to, from where
the jungle starts. It had swept
away the snow-white young
peaks.

Footprints of some movement.
Can you see that?