Rabindra Mishra

Each day

As the sun

rises with pale, vacant eyes

my day begins with a body count

But my heart is an unyielding bag

You hit it

And yet it remains impassive,

Solid and unmoved.

Of course

I fear thrown bricks and flowing blood

But I detest those dull gentle days

As violent punches give me a better start.

Bad news is good news, they say.

I can’t be a hero in peace, anyway.

We all flourish on others’ misery

Doctors need their patients’ pain

Lawyers their litigations

And Journalists wallow in tragedy

We are weeds feasting on decay

And every day

Sun sets by sprinkling its closing breath

On rivers stained deep crimson red

But who is there to care

I end my day counting my bountiful catch

Of tragic lives and unspoken despair

It is true that my heart beats

But still it is dead

Don’t you know?

I am a journalist.

Rabindra Mishra, 28 December 2004, London