And when autumn burns ripe
murmuring as a sage,
I do not hate them anymore,
In a burst of wildflower faces,
Return forgotten afternoons and wall
hangings
Forlorn. Forbidden. Forgotten.
Wearing a torn foot of yesterday.
Into a frozen city on the mirror,
the storm keepers of the native
Exhale a lung full of voices,
Their unbuttoned shirts smuggle
across the windmill of flesh,
Sprawling the faded acres along:
Shoulder stitch, armpits, cuffs, and collar—
Drown on a voyage to the sea.
Crisis is a sad cactus plant in a
live-in-relationship to belonging —
A rag of honour. A name. A heartbeat
It is then the sun falls over the eyes
Squashing the orange of its
sleeplessness,
Fondness grows into a silent forest.
The lips submit to the address of the
other,
Letting the kite chasers and night
growers belong, Ghare-Baire.
(Ronald Tuhin D'Rozario writes -- stories, poems and essays. He lives in Calcutta, India. Ronald Tuhin D'Rozario writes -- stories, poems and essays. He lives in Calcutta, India.)
