My Voice

History is crucified on a half-burnt stage directly in front of open eyes; Neruda’s poem is lying near the dead bodies of children, and a young girl is standing like a black shadow, resisting the suppression of the voice and sight of the young generation. The lines on the palms have been question-marked. These things happen in front of people belonging to all generations. Yes, all these presentations were to protest against the injustice rampant in this world. They were in the form of paintings, acts, and displays — somehow, I saw a kind of poetry in them, a poetry which is not written in words but presented in a poetic manner. There may be a number of questions bubbling up in our minds. Can there be poetry without words, poetry in reality, or poetry in protest? Or can a protest be poetry? I do not accept them merely as paintings, as a painting is a cage where the present turns to the past. All these situations are very much in the present, poetry wailing near the dead body of children, history caught in chains and hanged, a young girl clothed in black, in a black veil, walking beside us every moment. They belong to the present; how can they be perceived to be of the past?

 

For this war affected world

 

Rati Saxena