Death Of My Father's Dream Poem by Rites Ghosh

Tonight, the world is too drenched,
the unmoved earth too distilled
under films of rainy shades-
I dream, in such a soaked, sultry night
of my father
or, of his fathers
turning green in
the rain-harvested smile.

The beautiful buttrerflies of the world
throwing colour-flints
investing frills upon wings,
leap around the shooting blades of leaves
while I catch young pollens in the air
I dream.-
I dream of ploughs, hoes, ladders
bruishing the refusal of clods-
I smell shy scent of glory
from metaphysical dust.

My fathers are dead with dust-
and so gone vegetable dreams
perhaps necessarily-
over my roofless life
primodial stars are fine and crazy-
only luminous nothingness-
I'll be privileged to die here now.

But before death distorts me
let one search startle you-
who massacred myth of love?
who marginalised universal benign?
or, dismissed tales of green power?

Self-conceited city intelligentia...Think!
and help me die.
Let my last tear-drops evaporate untraced
like the sighs of third -world.