I cannot hear anything
I cannot speak, my look is vacant,
I pray every night, alone and broken,
Maybe, I believe in miracles,
Maybe it’s easier this way.
My laughter, my tears go for a killing.
My folded palms then dissolve at the end
in the disappearing lines,
There is nothing much to say now,
A stillness hangs over,
a heart ice-covered within inclusiveness.
Come tomorrow and someone
will sift the ashes,
of my frail bones
and immerse them in water,
Elsewhere, it may nourish
the roots of the future plants,
I flow in the currents in search of self,
in search of a Newfound life.
,
©Gopal Lahiri
Short-Bio:
Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata, India, based bilingual poet and critic and published in English and Bengali language. He has published 31 books to his credit and his works are translated in 16 languages. Recent credits: The Wise Owl, Cajun Mutt Press, Dissident Voice, Piker Press, Indian Literature, Kitaab, Setu, Undiscovered Journal, Poetry Breakfast, Shot Glass, The Best Asian Poetry, Converse, Cold Moon, Welsh Haiku Journal, Verse-Virtual journal, International Times and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021.
Twitter@gopallahiri
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