Hiroshima...

That mushroom
Grown and spread...
An evocation to the dead...
Perhaps can't be seen...
Now that the city is clean
And glossy tiles and growing green
All had put a layer of happiness
Now one can't find even miniscule trace
Of ashes...grayed hair...rigor mortis...
Lakes filled with stilled floating fish...
Of children lifeless in perambulators...
Of fusion-fission sending jitters...
Of flowers discolored in a wink of an eye...
Of grass burnt like hay...pavements black dyed...

Another August six comes to find
Nuclearheads stacked up in horrendous lines...
In arsenals...warehouses...kitchens of power
Cooking a deadly concoction...O dear!

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