The Dying Body Chronicles 9: The Thirty years Mosquito war
I killed a mosquito this morn.
It had my blood on its lips.
It had drunk me in the dark,
its small fingers wandering
over my body, its teeth on my skin.
It ate me & drank me like body
& blood, this ferocious mosquito.
I clapped after it like a quarrel
& it evaded each time. You should
have seen the rapid shudder
of its wings, the deft maneuvers
it managed just to avoid me.
It was a really good driver.
I left it alone but it got bold.
It began to think itself the master
of the skies, the lord of flies,
the devil itself. Lord have mercy,
I simply watched it dance around
my body, taking a bite here, a sip
there & then, as fast as thought
I clapped a song & lo, there it was,
a simple squash of bloodstain;
my blood, the mosquito's stain.
The mosquito had no one to tell it
of older massacres. The signs
were still there on my room wall;
old blood stains, blackened remains
of once renowned warriors. I killed
them all. It should have learnt
the history here in this room.
But truth be told, who pays history
any mind these days. If it had
bothered, it would have known
that this war of hate has been on
long before it was born. It would
know that its people have bested me
time & time again. It would know
that I have done horrible things
to its race. It should have left me
well alone. But it must eat.
For it, it is the only way it knows
to live. For me, it is malaria.
There's no black or white about this
thing, no right or wrong. Is this
not how we keep this broken down
thing called earth revolving?