We read late into the night one day
and discovered all that we needed to know, to get by.
We walked out the next sultry Indian morning, under the unforgiving sun,
to put to test all that we had dug out from within the withered pages
of moth eaten books.
We spoke in several tongues, in every tongue
and every ear heard us, or pretended to.
We were joyous, free finally, of the burden of all the world's lies
written in beautiful words, written in the ink-blood of history.
When they asked us to reveal our identities, when they tried to
discover the truth of our words,
we shot them, slit their smiles from ear to ear and broke their bones.
We killed them.
They were scared, the others,
of the power of pure knowledge, of truth.
Or atleast our version of it.
For truth is but a shimmering illusion, afloat on the waters
of an ancient sacred river.
As for our words, our knowledge,
we put it all, all of it in a book.
And we called it ' The Law'.
In the land of the Free and Enlightened,
words are hard, bloody blows of death.
Our words, never theirs.
