On the morning of the festival of light
I feel the brimming fuel inside. The body
is liquid. The cool breeze
unwinds the red and the crimson
from the core of the flowers.
The pennons show some directions,
and that the ways always quiver.
“They play the wrong chants.”
My neighbour says. “Yes.” I assess
the tune. An ambulance traverses
the overbridge. I gather the leftover
fireworks from the box marked –
‘yesteryear’. If I set them free right now
their flares will scatter into hidings.
The Circles
Mitarik’s pens have drowned in the bossom of his half read books.
His heart doesn’t have the sense to be anyone’s rook.
The turn he took reminds him that he has forgotten
the address. “It’s all stress.” His friends say.
And he searches for at least one pen inked,
and when he finds it he draws a circle on every white sheet.
.
Kushal Poddar
Words & picture
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