(Thanks to Inam Hussain Mullick for the prose style)
She travels like the night…..wind-swept smiles of the river. The bullet speaks a soft prayer and dies without a funeral…..
a funeral of the moons who were killed in my song last summer….the radio knows their secret when winter hallucinates.
And yet she laughs like a woman….laughs like the wind that shields the door on her skin……ancient layers and lyres of time…
tonight the child shall find a mother……like the violin finds her chords of rain
Tonight she will find her womb……..hidden with dust beneath her wedding saree……and pray to the Gods for rain. She might
also stab the sky for rain…….the poet slides into her mouth and drowns in her storm……the madmen come to her for comfort..
the demons dance with amnesia on her tongue…….she can’t remember the name of her next child.
We are seated at the coffee table……remembering politicians who killed her brother….the drink provides a therapy…..it travels
through her clothes and body…….like the painters orbiting time……travelling blood-lines….like her sweat chases me on thoughtless
nights……….abort the moon
So you’re the same poet…….she asks me with a touch of secrecy…...who slew my children at midnight……..in the neon lit whorehouse….
who stole my wedding saree…….who danced with me in the rain……….who hid the child inside the radio……and let the violin stroke my
womb? So you’re the same demon who suckled mirrors…..licked me blind…..and murdered Banalata Sen?
Fuck the rain…….fuck the song…….fuck the rainsongs…...we shall live the century cloistered in the walls of a kiss……..let
prostitutes rule the poem now……winter will bring a new wind poet who torments your eyes………and crawls through
your hair like war……time will heal my letters……roses will heal the wine…….and the violin drink the moon.
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