• poets_never_fall_in_love 10w

    The Home In Her Heart

    Filled with dusty memories,
    Singed with golden fireworks,
    Beating in pain,
    Like the cringing cling
    Of and ancient horn
    In the dead of night...
    Under the smoked
    Sodium vapour light..
    Where the silent ghosts of the past
    See us,
    Merged in all sorts of colors
    Red green blue yellow,
    That shine off in a grace
    From the pool of water, yet so shallow,
    Floating across paper boats
    Made of wood,
    That splash under the heavy rains,
    And bloom in rhythm,
    As soon as the evening prayers start
    Like the gong of a fire, before,
    The white skull-cap heads can depart.

    The little lamps pray in the corners,
    Lighting up the crying faces,
    As they reflect before the water maze
    Painting the white monument
    With a fairy on her head,
    Leaving us in a dumb speechless daze.

    The rickshaw wheels,
    Splaying mud all over
    Those brown cursing faces,
    Glowing with a sheen of salt,
    All waiting for a mid morning dip
    In the roaring silence
    Of the heart of love;
    Hoping to dive from tree tops,
    Right into the mouth of yesterday's edge

    And those lovers sitting on the stone steps
    Reliving tomorrow before it dies away,
    Feeling their way
    Through all the years
    When they were first learning how to lie.
    All fading behind the yellow gray walls
    Alive with crystal chandeliers
    Coated with dying twitter
    Of the sweetest voices on earth,
    Filled lovingly with tears,
    Melanged with the bhelpuri call of mirth,
    The bangle criers tingling
    Like marked goosebumps on my skin,
    Yet falling in love
    Behind summer trees
    The light playing with shadows
    Inside my fisted palms.

    And just when I thought
    Our story was over,
    The little boy
    With his naked feet
    Came running, carrying his sack of grain
    Yet when I looked inside,
    I fell for life again,
    For I found my childhood again
    Like a butterfly
    That finds its cocoon once more.
    I felt the sick hot air
    Blowing like wind mills
    On my soul dried of rain,
    The hawkers screaming inside my ears
    Just how nostalgia smells like..

    Then the four day love comes leaping
    Forming water ripples in the sky,
    All those million colours,
    Painted on flower buds
    Hidden beyond the smoke
    And drum beats,
    That haunt me in my worst dreams..
    Smoked by the red paint festival
    That steals lovers from themselves
    And the tears fall like rainfall
    On a soggy wintry night,
    Captured by a madman
    Through the branches of a nude tree.

    Yet I cry to see those bare bodies
    Behind my arms,
    All shivering and sweating in rhythm
    The street filled
    With strip-clothed mendicants,
    All praying and singing in unison,
    For a touch of painlessness.

    The slum smells of blood ,
    And dried skin falling off
    On the foot marks the whites left
    Aeons ago, on a tilted clifftop.
    And yet here we stand,
    Like broken soldiers of the war,
    Those tears marked beneath our eyes
    Or choking down our intestines,
    Like an anaconda burning inside...
    We keep our sweets hidden
    Behind our favorite toys,
    Hoping to keep them alive
    Even longer than ourselves ..
    Our tangled taste buds
    Swiftly strike strings
    With our sweet melodies..
    Till everyone bows down in submission
    And we smile our deadly lovely smiles
    Before we say ..

    " আবার হয়তো আসব ফিরে কোনদিন"...

    #mirakee #pod
    @mirakee @writersnetwork

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