634 Ways To Kill Fidel Castro

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(Once it was reported that American agency CIA had tried 634 times to physically oust Fidel Castro of Cuba. I have versified my feelings of CIA’s plot against Cuba in general and against peace loving people in particular.)

How far is the hell
Where eagles dare to fly in the face of fire
How deep is the water beneath the frozen heaven
Where shining knives cry foul in humming giggles
The killing field is ready for the deluge
Violence resembling violence in sizzling soliloquy
Nobody knows where to hide in blackouts
As if the whole sky of Havana smoking in burning cigars
The butts of harlots swaying in black guises
To entice the lust of the soulless flickers of the grasshoppers
To hide the shrouded faces of brokers of democracy

Any time daggers will be piercing the petals of eternal roses
At the drop of hats of the high priests in a high voltage choir
Any time it will be smoking in cloudless catastrophe
And there will be cataclysm of joy and horror in lesser worlds near by
That is why the sugarcane islands sounding breathless psalms of shame
Crestfallen as ever they would be in no-man’s land
As if for ever to live and for ever to die unheard and unsung
Trampled under the iron boots of the laws of conscience.

Still the old haggard raises his index finger
At the mortal laws of inevitability to defy death and fear
Still he begs for universal freedom of bread and butter through the ages
Puffing high brand of cigars one after another in a visible corner of the world
Not knowing the end of his journey, not caring for the unsound order of democracy
Yet all the beggars have gathered gracefully on the porticos of power
With their humble bowls of peace and freedom
Demanding foods for ancient wisdom to sustain all along the corn fields
As they cannot wait any longer for the doom’s day to wash away their nights
So that the hangman’s noose never crosses fingers to the gallows
So that the vulgarisation of power of democracy be left in the hanging garden
And they let the bastards be writhing in serpentine labyrinth
And that is what happens to be the jackal’s day at the darkness of noon.

Six hundred thirtyfour times of double standards have crossfired
Booming babies born into a roar of laughter
To say blessings to the barefooted millions of the wretched world
Where are the parents of the free world
Who have already dug up a hole in their panties to hide the bones and skulls
To bamboozle their whims of creating a paradise of evils
Always they smell rot, they perish momentarily
And are reborn again and again with their satanic skullduggery
Their chickbones are as feeble as a timid should be
They play the rule of the game

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