The Funeral of Kindness

Samson Ningthoujam

The earth has grown so thirsty for goodness
that even a drop of mercy
feels like rain
after a thousand dry seasons.

Crowds celebrate
the smallest softness from hardened hearts,
tenderness arriving from such hands
feels unnatural—
like winter suddenly learning
how to bloom.

Once, kindness was expected.
Now the world applauds
when the stone simply
chose not to crush the flower.

Compassion was buried quietly
beneath mountains of paper and rules,
while cold rooms decided
which suffering deserved a name.
Broken souls were punished
not for evil,
but for falling apart
too loudly.

No one asked
what darkness shaped their wounds—
only why their pain
failed to fit the system
cleanly.
Somewhere between law and judgment,
mercy was left starving
outside iron gates
that still called themselves human.