Bullets have got our names under this regime

Some deaths are like rituals
No one even remembers the dates.
Some deaths are remembered forever
To haunt you and even in your sleep.
Some deaths are there too for only a handful of mothers and wives to mourn.
We have walked upon deaths
Comfortably quietly.
We all know the bullets have got our names under this regime.
Isn’t it the time we sing our kind of anarchy?