I hear it on radio,
between songs and playlists,
on my way to the beach.
I read it in paper,
neatly placed between colourful magazines,
in my travel agent's office.
I talk about it with a random colleague,
a small-talk in the corridor or at a high-tea
I couldn't avoid.
I feel it a little bit,
cursing inflation under my breath,
when filling up fuel for the long road-trip.
Although,
by and large,
it remains at large.
A factual fiction,
a piece of history,
unfolding in some faraway land.
with no say or voice
in my shallow sighs
or daily-grind.
Missiles made out of range by distance,
mortars safely contained by indifference,
gunshots easily unheard by biased ears,
stacks of rotting corpses conveniently unseen
by eyes blinded by nonchalance.
A war,
on another continent,
may be on another planet altogether
tucked away neat,
from my plans
for the long weekend.
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