The Puzzle Unsolved Or Hands Toward Morning

Dr Ranbir Laishram
My mind drifts away,
I watch from inside myself.
We live on a small map,
a place the rulers call unimportant.
They do not hear our names.
They count us as noise.
Fire eats our fields.
Guns make music for the rich.
People line up for bread,
for water, for shelter.
Rights are pages torn out.
Years pass like festival lights,
same speeches, same promises.
Money buys silence,
opportunists trade pain.
Children learn the sound of fear.

We wake each morning
and pretend it is new.
Hope walks with hunger.
Grief keeps us company.
Who wins? who loses?
The answer is a hollow bell.
No one wins.
Everyone loses.
Yet some grow fat:
the middlemen,
the dealers,
the men in bunkers.
They watch the show,
but they do not sleep easy.
Against hope, we ask:
how long will this burn?
A lifetime? a generation?
A thousand years?
I whisper — not forever.
Let the sun rise again.
Let hands reach for hands.
Let songs turn from sorrow
to voices that heal.
Peace is simple work:
we begin by seeing each other.