A Poem by RS

 

        Volume - 1                             Issue -5                          March 2025     

Breaking the Chains of Childhood

Children’s laughter silenced by toil’s cruel hand,

Tiny shoulders bent beneath burdens not their own;

In fields of mud and factories’ ghostly lands,

Their innocence stripped, their dreams overthrown.

Bright classrooms left empty, chalkboards growing cold,

While little feet hurry down shadowed, grinding ways;

Their stories, unheard, in exploitation told,

On World Day Against Child Labour, lift up their praise.

No child was born to sow dust in the sun,

Nor to stitch seams late into the night;

Their hands belong to play, to learn, to run,

To paint the world with wonder and light.

Let our voices rise, a chorus fierce and bold:

“Education, not exploitation, is every child’s right.

Free them from chains of profit’s icy hold,

And turn their darkness into guiding light.”

Together we stand—families, cities, lands—

To end this silent crime, to break the chains of fear;

On this day we pledge, with open hearts and hands,

To give every child a future—bright, hopeful, clear.

-        RS

Elegy for Hungry Gaza

 

Elegy for Hungry Gaza

“And all the children shall lie down in silence, and none shall wake them but the wind.”

I. The Cry Beneath the Ashes

Gaza, thy name is now a wound unhealed,
A page of fire no sea can cool or shield.
Thine olive groves are graves of ancient light,
Now trampled under drones and endless night.
Once bread was baked where songs were sung at noon—
Now ovens cold, and silence swells the tune.

Beneath the shroud of smoke and shatter'd stone,
Half a million souls cry out alone.
“Catastrophic hunger”—not a phrase,
But lips too dry to whisper praise or raise
A crumb to tongue. A mother rocks her ghost—
A child she fed with hope, now famine’s host.

II. The Ruins Remember

The streets remember feet that danced and played,
Now rubble fields where limbs and names are laid.
Since Oct. 7’s black and bloody dawn,
When vengeance came and reason was withdrawn—
25,000 gone in Gaza's womb,
The land now mother, manger, and the tomb.

In Israel too, the mourning candles burn,
For 1,200 never shall return.
Each side has wept, and war has made them kin
In grief, though not in justice, nor in sin.
Yet still the blades of war are drawn anew,
And mercy fades where rockets split the blue.

III. Hunger’s Dominion

No fig, no grain, no milk within the cup,
The soil starved, and time refuses to sup.
The date trees lean like mourners dressed in dust,
And water sings with poison, rot, and rust.
The aid ships wait, but gates are iron-shut,
And mouths bloom open like a wounded cut.

There is no feast in Gaza, only fast—
A curse that binds the future to the past.
Children trace loaves on walls with bits of coal,
Dream meals that death erases from the soul.
And hospitals become the final bed—
For hunger feasts where angels fear to tread.

IV. Of Hostages and Haunting

Still buried deep within the city’s cry,
The captive moan, unseen beneath the sky.
One hundred thirty-six in shadow kept,
While nations watched and diplomats just wept.
And some—already lost—yet still unnamed,
Their stories swallowed, futures gone unclaimed.

And soldiers too—five hundred souls and more—
Who marched on orders, now are lost to war.
On one day twenty-one were cast to flame,
A building fell, and none returned the same.
What price is drawn in blood and broken breath,
That makes a home of sorrow, war, and death?

V. A World That Watches

O West, who dines while children chew on sand,
Who counts the votes but not the bleeding hand,
Who funds the flames and sends the fuel with pride—
Where is thy conscience? Where does love abide?
You speak of law, of order, and of peace—
Yet justice dies, and mercy finds no lease.

Gaza is not a battlefield alone—
It is a cradle cracked, a dying tone.
Its minarets, its churches, shattered eyes,
Its prayers now echoes lost in drone-filled skies.
Yet still it sings, though no one dares to hear—
A song of hunger wrapped in mortal fear.

VI. The Elegy That Will Not End

O Gaza, weep, but do not weep alone,
The earth must shake beneath thy starving moan.
Let poets rise, and prophets cry thy name,
Until the world can no more turn from shame.
Let every stone become a voice, a plea—
"Let bread, not bombs, befall my family."

There is no glory in this endless grave,
No honour left for those who will not save.
Let ceasefire bloom where famine had its root,
Let children grow where once we buried fruit.
And may this elegy not be the last—
But the end of hunger’s brutal, burning past.

– In memory of all lives lost and all lives still waiting to live.
World Hunger Day — Gaza, 2025

                        -rs

 Short Story

 

The Feast of the Forgotten

Once, in a world not so different from our own, there existed two great kingdoms—Plentoria and Emberlin.

Plentoria was a land of overflowing orchards, golden granaries, and rivers of milk and honey. Its people tossed bread to the birds and left plates half-full, for food was so abundant, they believed it eternal.

Emberlin, on the other hand, was a kingdom of parched soil and empty bowls. Here, children named the wind “Mother,” for it was the only thing that touched them each night. People here ate dreams more often than bread.

Every year, on the 28^th day of the Month of Sorrows, a mysterious fog would rise between the two lands, forming a bridge of clouds called the Mouth of Earth. It was said that only one person from each kingdom could cross this path—chosen by fate, not birth.

This year, Liora, a twelve-year-old girl from Emberlin, was chosen. She had never tasted an apple, only seen them in the drawings her mother etched in the dust. That same morning, from Plentoria, came Jalen, the prince who thought hunger meant craving chocolate instead of caramel.

As they met on the bridge, the clouds beneath them whispered, “Share or perish.”

Liora and Jalen walked together into a third land—the Forgotten Field—a place shaped by human memory. Here, food appeared only when summoned through understanding.

At first, nothing grew. Jalen demanded fruits by name, but the soil yawned. Liora, kneeling, whispered stories of her people’s hunger—of her brother who once ate petals, of her grandmother who brewed soup from bark.

Moved by the pain woven into her voice, the earth trembled and sprouted a single loaf of bread.

Jalen stared, silent. For the first time, he felt hunger—not of the body, but of justice.

He broke the bread in two. They ate, and the field bloomed—trees bore fruits with names neither had ever heard, and vines dripped with compassion.

Returning to their lands, Liora carried seeds of memory, and Jalen, the recipe for humility. Together, they built the Council of Tables, where Plentoria shared not just food, but wisdom—and Emberlin offered resilience, tradition, and the sacred art of gratitude.

And every year since, on World Hunger Day, the sky bridge opens again—not between lands, but between hearts.

Moral: Hunger isn’t just about empty stomachs—it’s about unseen stories, unequal hands, and the courage to build a table where all can eat, and be heard.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

John F. Kennedy: The Flame and the Future

 

John F. Kennedy: The Flame and the Future

A voice rose clear in freedom’s name,
From Boston’s winds to nation’s flame,
He dreamed not small, but reached the skies,
With courage born of truth, not guise.
In Cold War chill, he stood with grace,
And etched his will in history’s face.
 
Ask not, he said, what you might gain,
But serve with heart through joy and pain.
He walked through time with steady stride,
With vision wide and hope as guide.
A sailor bold, a brother brave,
He lit the path he could not save.
 
For civil rights, he raised his hand,
And dared to dream a fairer land.
Though shadows closed on Dallas day,
His legacy would light the way.
A torch passed on, his dream still burns—
In every heart, his echo turns.

-        rs

Ode on Bicycle

 

       Volume - 1                             Issue -3                     April 2025     

Ode on Bicycle

Beneath the sun, a two-wheeled steed awaits,

Its chrome curves gleaming, eager to explore,

A frame of bones where motion orchestrates,

The pedals hum a tune we can’t ignore.

It carries dreams on spokes that slice the air,

A compass forged from handlebars and chains—

A silent friend who knows the roads we dare.

 

Through winding lanes where dappled shadows play,

It dances, light as laughter, swift as wings,

The wind conspires to steal our breath away,

As asphalt blurs to streams of fleeting things.

We climb the hills where gravity complains,

Then plummet, hearts unbound, to valleys low—

The earth becomes a song, the ride, refrains.

 

From cobbled paths where history still breathes,

To neon streets where city pulses race,

It bears the weight of commuters and wreaths

Of childhood joy—first freedoms we embrace.

A student’s grind, a merchant’s laden cart,

A wanderer’s escape to distant skies—

The bicycle, a kaleidoscope heart.

 

No fuel but strength, no voice but spinning gears,

It scoffs at haste, yet charts the quickest course.

A relic turned revolution through the years,

It threads the world with purpose and resource.

So praise this steed, both humble and divine,

Whose wheels, like time, turn past and future near—

A circle’s grace, where all our journeys twine.

               

              - Sivakumar Raman

                           -        

Elegy for Thirst: A Plea to the Polluters

 

         Volume - 1                             Issue -2                     March 2025     

Elegy for Thirst: A Plea to the Polluters

The rivers once sang in crystalline tongues,
Their currents a hymn where the heron had sprung.
Now bottles and wrappers choke their blue throats,
Asphalt and poison seep into their notes—
Will we heed the dirge of the waters unsung?

The pond was a mirror for dragonfly wings,
A cradle for lilies, a wellspring for springs.
Now sludge paints its surface, a greasy disguise,
Plastic confetti where minnows once rise—
What ghosts will drink from the ruin we bring?

The lakes held the moon in a liquid embrace,
Their depths nursed the salmon, their shores carved with grace.
But toxins now ripple like shadows unkind,
A debt left for children we’ve chosen to blind—
Will their parched throats curse us to history’s disgrace?

The oceans, vast vaults where the whales hymn and roam,
Now choke on our hubris, our apathy’s foam.
Microplastics glint where the starfish once clung,
Acid tides rise where the coral was young—
What wars will we wage for a flask of fresh foam?

You, who dump waste where the tadpoles once swam,
Who drain factory filth into wetlands’ sweet dam:
The earth keeps a ledger, each sin etched in mud,
Each choked stream, each poisoned well, each tainted flood—
Your grandchildren’s lips will bleed drought’s bitter jam.

For water is life’s final psalm and first vow,
A relic we’ve squandered—yet demand it now.
When taps cough dust and the skies withhold rain,
No wealth can bribe mercy, no tech rinse the stain—
The future’s cracked cup waits. What choice have we now?

So let the land breathe, let the rivers run clear,
Unstop the choked springs, hold the wetlands dear.
For every drained marsh, a thirst yet unborn,
For every oil spill, a harvest of scorn—
The clock’s ticking liquid. The end hovers near.

Rebuild what you’ve broken. Let conscience command.
The earth’s veins are bleeding; we hold the last bandage.
Or else, when the last drop is traded and sold,
Our epitaph’s ink will be rust, thirst, and mold—
And the tale of our drowning… will die with the land.

                                                - Sivakumar Raman

“Spectrum of Scars: An Anthem for the Unseen”

 

       Volume - 1                             Issue -2                     March 2025     

“Spectrum of Scars: An Anthem for the Unseen”

Beneath the sun’s indifferent, gilded eye,
we etch our skins with borders—ochre, coal, sienna—
pigments twisted to flags, then fists. History’s loom
weaves night and dawn to chains, dyed deep in marrow.
The earth, once a canvas of unclaimed light,
now parses its children by wavelengths of fear.
Watch how crimson tides rise when bodies collide—
the atlas of us, scarred by latitudes of hate.

They coded our worth in the math of melanin,
auctioned ancestors under HEX values of scorn,
priced souls by the gram in the database glare.
Schools, cells, sidewalks—algorithms of exclusion,
where “diversity” blooms as a corporate mural,
yet hands clutch purses when shadows grow tall.
The ballot, the badge, the gavel’s cold script—
all hue-cracked tools in a masterclass of lies.

You’ve seen the gallery: nooses hung like folk art,
the smirk of a headline that blames the deceased,
a mother’s wail muted to trending hashtag.
They pixelate riots but blur the cause,
reframe the fire as a failure of grace.
The museum of trauma charges admission—
gawk at the relics of breath stolen, spent.
Our grief’s curated, our rage under glass.

But the prism rebels. In the subway’s hum,
a Punjabi hymn tangoes with Bronx rap,
a trans woman’s laugh cracks the binary night.
Street murals bloom where the tanks once parked,
rewriting the concrete with ancestors’ ink.
Each protest chant is a chromatic scream,
scattering shards of the supremacist lens.
The marginalized spectrum refuses to bend.

We’re the ungridded, the riot outside the RGB,
the brown girl who fuses quantum and Qur’an,
the indigenous codebreakers unplugging the west.
Your algorithms can’t cage our crescendo—
we’re tongues of turquoise, vowels of vermilion,
the rogue rays that fracture their sterile white sea.
We name our shades in the teeth of their “norms,”
reclaim the language that sought to erase.

So let the labs of hate spin their pale theories—
we’ll drown their white noise in sunflower bursts,
in the roar of maroon, jade, bronze, and chrome.
The future’s a kaleidoscope we grip like a blade,
each face a frontier, each voice a new dawn.
No pigment is illegal, no lineage denied.
March 21st—we unsilence the spectrum,
and the world, in its blizzard of hues, finally sees.

        -        Sivakumar Raman