Thursday, November 15, 2012

Bhutan Chronicle No 3

These scissor winds that blow here
And the chimney winds from a farmer's hut,
All speak of you..
How you craved to be written about
Like a child in a market place
Begging for a new toy..
So let me put you on the dissection table
Let my words be ether
And my scalpel-pen carve you..
Your eyes,
Your lip,
Your hair..
Little by little....Everything..
For a new batch of wood-carvers
Or hand-loom makers,
Who seek to put you in dye,
So you never die, my love,
Only DEATH does.

1 comment:

Abin Chakraborty said...

I would have thought a young man, however balding, on his (first) honeymoon would gust a few romantic lines celebrating nature and love. Oh, how different our perceptions can be!

autobiographical details apart, i really liked the 1st and the 3rd one. esp the first one.tender and moving.

did they make you sleep in different rooms?