The sun has dappled down in February
The sky seems soulless and stolen
The memories of my childhood wretched
As the sand watch that mirrors
My unspoken confined solace
Time is a gun, Wreckless as tiny pebbles
The imagery of my hometown sickens
And petrified like little blood spots
I speak in metaphor to paint my world
Narrow and universal in its sorrows
Rain had come down slowly like mother’s love
Where tradition meets and goes away unseen
I evoke my pen of tremors of thunder dragons
Like blasphemous books we hold to.
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Sayani Mukherjee
Picture Nick Victor
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