A Poem for the Earthquake Disaster in Japan

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A Poem for the Earthquake Disaster in Japan

(by Churaumanie Bisssundyal)

In the bowels of the earth,

a demon snarled with vengeance of fire.

Mother Earth shivered and sagged;

Japan shriveled

from the stab of the infernal dagger.

The Pacific now flows silently, weeping;

the cuckoos  sing in mourning;

fairies swoon away

in the flood, fire, and noise. 

In this sudden lash, leap and shudder,

a civilization of love and peace was shattered;

splendid buildings came tumbling down,

even the garlands of  the divine were broken and strewn;

devotees of love were drowned and buried alive;

the  angels weeping in clouds.

The little infant suckled the breasts of the rubble;

the mother was minced into the earth's womb;

the father disappeared like a leaf in the wind.

In the wrath of this dark unknown,

iniquities are hatched and traded;

the air becomes polluted with conspiracies of destruction;

the thunder colludes, and holds its silence

to absolve itself from this infernal murder.

Yet Asia’s faith

stands strong with  mountains and rivers,

lilies open their petals and cry out to the moon

to distill its salve of silvery splendor

on broken souls of wounded tears,

where the funeral pyre blazes in irony

with the crimson horizons of  Japan,

where grief and sorrow rise and set with even fire of the sun,

where, like sands of the desert,

shrieks of mourning fill the wind,

playing melancholy tunes

in forests and cities, in dreams and waking.

Here despair and terror

rage like a hurricane with blankets of dark clouds,

covering  Asia’s innocence with pain,

like the demon’s reign of terror,

like the tyrant’s rage for power. 

Then, My God,

if this is the  mystery of  fate and action

in the reverberation of some ancient retribution,

then the gods of the worlds

should discard their duties of celestial arrogance

and listen to the sad symphony of dead and dying men,

listen to the sitar of bleeding emotions,

to the flutes of widows shrieking,

to the foot bells of dancing smiles, plundered.

If this is your way to test the frailties of humans,

My God,

then you should review the mortal link with your supreme power,

and survey again the matrix of mortal love.

Here you have chosen your best garden for destruction,

the uprooted roses will never grow again,

the petals of human joy wither in the ground;

the fragrance of sacred thought dilutes in the stench of fear.

We mortal still adore the mystery of your actions, My God,

and are satisfied

to weave corpses and sorrow into garlands for your prayers.

Our loss and pain shall now be our mantras,

the funeral pyre, our faith and love.

We ask no more for mysteries we do not understand,

but  pray that such wrath may not occur again.

The earth is yours.

You are the creator, and we, your children.

If on the path of sin we tread,

then you must scold us into understanding.

But with such infliction of pain and murder,

it is too much for a father to give to his children.

If this is the vengeance of some evil power,

and not the anger of your chiding,

then, My God, it is imperative, that you heed my call

and fight the schemers of this wicked terror.

You must seek justice for this crime in the earth's womb,

and incarcerate the criminals into silence forever.

Never again should the beauty of your creation

be so ravaged and plundered.

Never again should human tears

be made so swift and wild,

swifter than the currents of oceans,

wilder than the monsoonal rains.

In these spoils of your creation, My God,

I can only pray

that you receive the murdered mass with love.

Give them a place in your home

and let their souls be resplendent in the heavens' alcove.

Each night when I look into the sky,

I must see them amid stars.

The partridge shall be my witness,

gazing at them as on the moon,

drinking nectar from their tears,

singing the remorse of this infernal song.

But you must never cease

giving strength to the living and wounded,

for the living must now love you more dearly,

worship you with greater faith and ardor,

chant the enigma of your glory,

even in this trial of despair.

And in these rubble of fallen spirit,

where centuries of mind is crushed in pain,

inspire the dispossessed to prosper again.

Make your avatar in the tragedy of this mourning nation,

that Japan may rise and walk again.