Thursday, November 7, 2013

Dooars Chronicles no. 3

These poems seem beautiful
More so in your hand,
Your fingers gift wrapping my offerings
Little by little the words you would read
Will stick to your heart
:Like twilight sticking to the last leaves.
Slowly they will flow inside your vein
In your blood,
Like two bodies exploring each other.
Soon enough your nights will smell of this parchment
Soon enough your afternoons these fonts of blue.
Let these words melt when you utter them,
In the solitude of heartache evenings.
Little whispers carried across
Afternoons where traffic melts into tar.
These unintelligible words,
Muttered under your breath,
Hidden from prying ears,
From iron book of customs
From deafening silence of laws,
Words which become white flowers
On a grave,
Paying homage,
Refreshed every time you speak my name
So the dead lives just a little longer.


Abin Chakraborty said...

iron customs, deafening laws and speaker imagining himself as dead...all so beautifully woven. its strange how i hear the music of ghalib/shahid in your lines

Vandana Sharma said...

very heartfelt poem...