Pointing Back- Questioningly And Unforgivably At You Poem by Nikhil Parekh

Whether you ludicrously pointed it; at the scantily clad beggars on the street; whose begging bowls were as empty as the impoverished carcasses that had formed in their stomachs,

Whether you disgustingly pointed it; at the brutally scorched river bed; from which protruded the most acrimoniously cold-blooded of stones; lamenting in the curse of an infinite impotent lifetimes,

Whether you accusingly pointed it; at those fearlessly patronizing harbingers of peace; whose views were wholesomely antagonistic to your wretchedly contemporary and robotic line of thought,

Whether you deplorably pointed it; at all those as slow as the pot-bellied tortoise; consuming a major chunk of their lives to achieve their targets; as they miserably withered in their inevitable disability,

Whether you parasitically pointed it; to your very own ailing and disabled parents; for not perpetuating every vein of yours with the best currency and wine; even as they breathed their last moment of existence,

Whether you venomously pointed it; towards the empty sky; where there lingered not even the most infinitesimal of cloud; casting solely unrelentingly harsh light and no rain,

Whether you sadistically pointed it; towards all those incessantly wailing children; orphaned since the very first cry of birth; disdainfully spending the prime years of childhood in the nonchalantly fetid dustbin,

Whether you salaciously pointed it; towards the widow's dwelling; whose every aspect of life; now plaintively resembled the most horrendously shattered forms of glass; indefatigably quavering in her white robe without her husband,

Whether you sardonically pointed it; towards the penuriously starving artist; to whom the entire planet had showed its insanely rude tongue; for interminably philosophizing and fantasizing; instead of routinely melanging with its sanctimonious fabric,

Whether you lecherously pointed it; towards the nimble footed dwarf; who went cadaverously unnoticed; even whilst walking amidst a inconspicuous horde of red
ants,

Whether you bawdily pointed it; towards the unfortunate blind man; who possessed coffins of hapless emptiness instead of eyeballs; for whom life was a mortuary of asphyxiating blackness; since the very first cry of fresh birth,

Whether you lividly pointed it; towards the unkempt tree; whose branches uncontrollably wept in the sweltering summer; bereft of even the tiniest leaf of
compassionate shade,

Whether you violently pointed it; towards the childless couple; who inconsolably led a countless sleepless nights; considering themselves to be the most cursed entities on planet divine,

Whether you ignominiously pointed it; towards the unfathomable valley; which timelessly reverberated and echoed with nothing else; but satanically maiming
emptiness,

Whether you pervertedly pointed it; towards all those temples; mosques; monasteries and churches built on bare brick; which were home to the greatest of God's in most rustically bohemian of their forms,

Whether you meanly pointed it; towards the deaf and dumb man; who wandered like a discarded animal; amongst the indifferently galloping and wantonly commercial planet,

Whether you obnoxiously pointed it; towards the penuriously beleaguered lover; who was the laughing stock of the entire uncouth society; whose heart as well as pockets jingled with nothing else but; at times betrayal; at times love,

Whether you vindictively pointed it; towards the hour of silent midnight; whose every conceivable cranny was miserably obfuscated from every source of exultation and vivid life,

O! yes; point one finger of yours anytime; anywhere and as worthlessly accusingly as you could to anyone; anyform on this miraculously blessed planet; but do remember O! human; that the remaining three of your fingers shall always point back; questioningly and unforgivably at you.