A Day, Eight Years Past

it was heard
they've taken him to the mortuary
last night - amid the usual February darkness...

when the crescent of the moon
had bade adieu to the shivering black sky,
he felt he wants to die

the wife lied beside, so did the child
there was love, there was hope - amid that starlit darkness

but, was it some sort of a ghost
that woke him up?

or, may be, he hasn't had slept in ages -
now he peacefully rests
inside the morgue...

did he wish for this slumber!

with blood-froth smeared lips
like a dead plague-rat's cadaver
sunk in the pitch-black gloom of a corner
he now sleeps...
never to wake up again.

never will he wake up again...

he'll never have to greet again
the incessant-incessant burden of waking up  --
told him the silence of a camel's cheek
fleeting beside his window after
the moon had set beyond the weird mirk.


still, an owl stayed up,
a quiescent melting frog
begged for a couple more moments
for the allusion of another morning --
in a conceivable warm affection...






[Translated excerpt from 'Aat Bochhor Aager Ekdin' by  Jibanananda Das; Picture Courtesy - Jakub Kujawa's 'Cocoon']

Beyond the Borderlines

sometimes i just want to fly away
someday i know for sure i would
just some things lie in mie path scattered
and 'ey mock me unperturbed as if i could...

an air of attachments

a cloudful of desires

memories like pebbles

wishes and 'eir shares

it wouldn't have helped either
had i been gifted with wings
a shackle of commitments binds mie claws
makes me a mortal with earthly things

love dwells in a forbidden lair

affection wears a burnt meadow

care calls for a barter of choice

life amidst mockery cold as snow

sometimes i just want to run away
someday i know for sure i would
just quite a few hurdles need to be crossed
and 'ey tease me unshaken as if i could...

it wouldn't have helped 'em all
had 'ey clipped mie wings
i'll rise like war-horse cry
denying whatever owns me
denying mie own belongings

Pic Courtesy: Google Images

Torn

it was seen to be falling apart

in a tranquility of despair

the love concussed agonized

amidst the denials of care

the petals possessed no smell, no more

the clouds ditched the rain

there was a dungeon beneath the windows

and the bond - a dismal disdain