by Fabiyas M V
Mesmerized by the compensation, even the victims are sanguine. The coconut palms that buttressed their lives fall down one by one. They are busy picking up the last juicy nuts. But they cannot keep their memories comatose. Red mounts come dead into the fields. The yellow frogs and the snakeheads bury their dreams under the new highway. The purest west wind will be stained with the carbon. The monsoon vibes will vanish in the motor cacophonies. The cataclysmic water will gulp the remaining homes. The last stop is still a grave, yet man prefers a fast track.