Kandahar Cruise (Feat. Amitava Kumar)

Rubber tires burn, Cathedral ceilings peeling
Glass stained saints crumble on parishioners kneeling
Hare Krishnas appealing, to westerners reeling
Madrassas from Madras, Mombasa to New Zealand
Fuel zeal and hope, demonstrations on the street
Effigies on fire, memos placed in a jeep
Along with a phone patched through from the Green Zone
My song is the ring-tone that triggers that bomb
Brings along a mourning mob of twenty wailing moms—
Non-stop sirens, more burning tires
Snipers on minarets with rifles firing
Woke up coughing up spurts of blood on my tunic
Alarm clock blasting, woke up to my music
Rose to my feet, slipped on my swooshes, —
On a stroll to understand the dark hearts of men…
That Burning Tire Artisan