Justice

The ways in which sometimes justice is served it ironical.

Justice?

There seemed to be no other course,
Of his troubles, he was the source,
Cut him off , out of his life,
Cut him off, with just a knife.
On 26th May, that fateful day
He’d decided; he would not stay
He picked up his long dagger
And walked out with a swagger.
In his chest, the blade he drove,
In his car, away he drove.
None could ever dream or see
None would think that it was he!
It wasn’t till the police came calling.
It wasn’t till the sun was dawning,
Rays fell on his lonely prison cell,
He had a glimpse of living hell!
No act, no crime, no wrong deed,
On earth or heaven went unpunished;
A man must pay for what he does.
And that had become his curse!


-Tulika Mukerjee Saha