Thursday, March 02, 2006
This poem is about Indira Gandhi, Prime Minister of India until her assassination, and the feelings the people of the Indian community had for herFor Indira Gandhi
You let the hawk in you
Break loose.
That, you seemed to think,
Would bring the dove back
To a disastrous sky,
Perhaps you stood too firm
And so were unbalanced
When you tried to throw
A lariat over a lion’s head.
Your wanted the garden whole.
What you saw as weeds
Might only have been flowers
Of a different kind:
And the wild horses
That would not be stabled
Nor join the herd
Were perhaps lions
That would have given too many tears.
For some, Indira,
You still are,
A bright mark in the sky, your memory
A suddenly appearing star
In their heart’s gloom.
For others, you were
The sky’s starring sore,
The sore only
Hate’s keen surgery
Could have removed.
Rain cloud in drought,
Or monsoon,
Sore or star,
You make your mark high,
Upon the heavens.
You were spectacular, and when you fell, all looked
Your way
Again, and wondered.
Michael Aarons
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