(A poem based on a scene I saw in my disturbed sleep, the night of the flyover collapse in Kolkata)

Oh, the irony! 

A daughter to be wed,
Four mouths to be fed,
He merges in the human rush
Only to be crushed.

He still holds the waters
That tamed a scorching head,
Unmoving limb a ferro mass
His thirst for life now dead.

She wished he’d fallen
Prey to time’s slow hand,
To hug the dawn’s new sun,
Unpoisoned in stone and sand.

Her abode one moment,
A tangled mass the next,
The road never traveled
Untimely laid to rest.

She picks his pieces of death
Waiting to taste her last breath
As a whirlwind of blame games
Blow out the human flames.

© Neha Chamaria 2016