Sankhajit Bhattacharjee

Sankhajit Bhattacharjee
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Nothing is going according to my will-
whatever I am thinking, the opposite is happening.
As the vultures throng near the dead body
to quench their eternal hunger,
a sheath of frustration has covered me whole
to suck the liveliness of my arteries and veins.

Time is river, which flows either with clear or muddy water-
favorable or unfavorable episodes characterize time.
Now I am plunged into mud-
the unfavorable moment is engulfing me,
I am sure to sink inside the quick sand.

I am existing in body only,
my heart, mind and senses have sublimed like camphor-
the color of my life has faded like sunset,
the sound of my life has become silent like graveyard,
the fragrance of my life is smelling like rotten eggs,
the taste of my life has become salty like sea water,
the touch of my life has become senseless like cold ice.

Here the sun remains below the horizon,
sore throat has choked the nightingale's voice,
the tulip takes bath in dirty dust-
the natural beauty has become blurred.

My life- a broken chariot-
has lost its rhythm and gait of movement.
Still it moves on, as it is its property,
here the spirit has been frozen like dead snow.
For the sake of my life, for the sake of my survival,
I have built a small fire on the snow
with broken branches and yellow grasses.

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4/22/2021 6:23:08 PM #