Blood Soaked You have forgotten your history Snapping your roots You have become a chameleon History is stained with blood. Our roots are the same Our blood was red Drinking blue poison You turned into a god of different hue. How could you build a rampart Around your mind As cold as ice As hard as fire Dividing us A great disaster. The flag of peace flutters A storm is raging in the heart. Wiping out history You are now history yourself Bloody time Is so thirsty.
Arleng We have filtered through The pages of history Orally passed on from man to man. Who are we? The stones say we are the naked tribes of the hills. History recorded us as the Mikirs. We have carried in our hearts The fire that burnt our house long ago. Our friendship with fire is very old The age old trees of the hills Cry out to us We are orthodox. Our lives wander up hills and down dales We have an ancient binding with Sriram. Kalaguru also wrote about our culture. We are the offsprings of the blue hills We have never been savage. Our hills are a separate self We are complete With separate culture, language and attire. Folklores flowing through generations And the myths tell our story Our identity is that we are men We are Arlengs.
Translated by Ananda Bormudoi
Monika Teronpi is a young poet based in Diphu, Karbi Anglong, Assam.