When my scattered thoughts scamper by -
a bubble of ideas floating low and high.
Everytime in deep thought, writing a poem,
common thoughts creep in just the same.
Why so many streets are soaked in red?
What is democracy, if people are in dread?
when ideas are woven together, a protest rises.
a dark lingering tunnel at the end surprises.
Why is it that, I can't look the other way?
Could have written different, so as to say.
Innocents still locked up behind bars of jail -
something wrong with justice, one can tell.
Hours of protest, occassional candle march.
What is the use of road blockades as such?
Shouldn't it have been the other way round,
Shouldn't it have been the other way round,
society's system with justice eternally bound?
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