Retribution Poem by Ajit Das

Subverting the system yielding no escape route
and law, finally, taking its own course,
the VIP feigns chest pain, moves in an ambulance
from hospital to hospital for urgent medical aid,
in a desperate bid to avoid the road that leads
to jail where ordinary mortals are sent
at the first instance on the similar pretext.

The despotic regime crumbling around him
and death, ultimately, staring in the face,
the dictator behaves like a cornered cat,
shuttles from hideout to hideout, cowering
in a cellar or a gutter, begging mercy, pity,
which he has denied to scores of protesters,
hunting them down ally by ally, house by house.

Behind shadows of doubts exists the divine order.
Its radiant rays glimmer on the skyline afar.
Delayed may be the nemesis, but inevitable it is.