TAJ, YOUR PIGEONS

Just that evening
They fed them so,
With eager hands
And cozy smiles
As the sun set over
The Gateway of India

The pigeons,

They pecked and cooed
It tingled, it soothed
To feel their delicate beaks
On open palms

Yet, back they went
To the majesty of the Taj
To sip on their wine
In the marble rooms

Gun shots.
They spilled their wine
And blood spilled too
In earnest measure
Which one was redder?
They wouldn’t live to see

Oblivious to the stiffening
Of the palms that fed,
They cooed, they cooed
Outside the royal inferno

The denizens of a century,
In hordes and hordes
They had fed off the crumbs
From the palms of the Taj

They flutter in groups
At every shot and blast,
Confused and struck
Like their human counterparts

Fire and smoke
Billows into the sky,
Still they don’t fly too far
How can they?

Terror?
They know nothing about that
Grenades?
No, they haven’t seen one
All they have seen and know
Are the crumbs they fed
Off the palms of the Taj

A shot rings out.
They fly again,
Then return to search
For the palms that fed.

They don’t find them.