Ananya Guha Poems
|44.||Its Soul Will Speak||10/30/2015|
|46.||Reading Banalata Sen||9/26/2015|
|48.||Must I Not Write?||9/25/2015|
They come with the spring
They come with summer
They come infested with flies and pock marks.
They are despised
Their baggage is children, women
The men have no place.
They want new territories.
They are culpable
They could be anything, anyone.
But most important of all
they are refugees, seekers of change
as the wind billows
and storm screams
They are whip lashed by wind
and bathed with waters, roaring
They are refugees.
Come me you let us go to relief camps
see their plight and write stories
media stories. Not ...
outside thre is the odoriferous wind
outside me you are clamouring
calling past, rummaging dreams
outside you will be treading dreams
asking for benisons, from rain swept hills
punctuated by silence
and me you interlocutors
in the theatre of change.