Cry Mother Cry

Randhir Thiyam

Cry Mother cry —
not soft, not hidden—
let it echo across the hills,
through the smoke of burnt homes,
over the silent loktak water.
Your sons—
they crown themselves kings
with borrowed pride,
thrones built on ash.
Brave?
Ask the wind—
it carries whispers of knives
turned inward.
They don’t build—
they bruise.
They don’t stand—
they circle,
like crabs in a bamboo basket,
pulling every rising hand
back into the mud.

Brother against brother,
name against name—
the fire doesn’t ask
who started it.
Cry Mother cry—
cry loud enough
to shake their hollow crowns.
Because your soil remembers
what your sons forget.
Cry, Mother Manipur cry—
not in silence this time,
not soft, not hidden.