The past is a nameless mass of deeds  

committed without consent, and words hurled 

only to be shamed into silence. To crack apart  

that bedrock of self-belief. Underneath  

my skin, the hounds are baying  

to be let out. The moon shines its  

slippery torch upon a forested floor. Nettles and  

thorns rustle amidst the rabbit grass. I hear. I  

hear them calling like sleepless squirrels. Shadow-flit 

figures play peek-a-boo. Soon they will come  

forward en masse. Stories will fall  

like leaves from the terror infested canopies,

and settle down, turning into mulch. We,  

have taken a stand. We are standing  

on the broken bones 

of faith and dignity. Someday, our songs  

of protest will churn up such anger that  

history will cringe at the sound, and huddle

closer to truth. For every arrow, bullet and  

trap, a hundred more of us will emerge. We  

are not mushrooming in the wild. We are the wild.  

Once we used to disintegrate beneath the light.  

We lived like shuffles in the background. Some  

stuffed their ears. Some gagged their mouths.

Some plucked out their eyes. And, the tongues 

of yet others lolled. None of that now.  

No more tortoise formation. No more guerrilla  

tactics. Our hands are blistered with memories.  

The ghosts will turn into mist as we wait  

for the winds to whip up a shiver  

on the stubbled fields of our discontent. We will turn

vapour into ice. Our knife-edged resolve will not  

splinter under the spotlight. We have set  

out snares for the echoes. Distributed buckets

for collecting the blood  

from each and every pound of flesh owed.  

The days of bathing corny feet with tears  

are done. Watch us  

smash the heads of mandates. Uproot  

diktats and sow afresh, the un-agented  

seed. Inhale the scent of a new order.  

Feel the thunder beneath your feet.