Is Calcutta burning? The dusts and carbons churning in the
Wind? Is spring coming? It is mid march, Shana! Krishnachura
still casting shadow in the college square, a lovers' arbor for awhile
The tree blossoms ablaze into a fire. Fire is my bro, my dearest schatzi
The red, crimson, blue- hues are many; my soul likes to be singed,
Die with warmth of knowing I am alive, alive for a day or two, till
The rain quenches my thirst, till the consciousness drip, drip, drip...
Schatzi, is the earth dying? Dying with ruthless lack of warmth,
Cities, towns, metropolises, I caught a whiff of putrid souls-
No harm killing already dead, a city of zombies, of walking shadows.
Far below this crust of illusion, a molten fire rumbling and growling to its
Day, fissure to open up, an eye opener too late or a drift of icy death from
The north, who knows in spite of the dream in our blood, we have ceased
To dream to paint a beauty of our ageless soul, this earth, this construct of
Dream. Lo, the winds caressing this beauty of dusk dressed into a bride of glow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem