Shouvik Roy (26th january 1992 / Kolkata)

This isn't my brain,
But a fruit full of pulp,
Squash it,
And Juice shall flow,
Run down my brows,
And wet my face
With its venomous bliss.
Take a sip from my lips,
And should you taste hatred,
Agony; let me know,
Or let it flow,
Bitter, sweet;
Morn, eve
Flow ‘til it dries
And the tang dies.

The spring will bring
A new fruit
Full of pulp,
Mash it,
Let it flow,
Take a sip from my lips,
And should you taste love,
Wisdom; don't let me know,
Just let it flow.
Flow till it flies
And paints the skies.