Image source: Lopa Banerjee
For all those short wintry days, sheathed under
The soft blanket of the setting sun, they met,
Under the misty halo of twilight.
Their hands clasped, their tongues tied
Under the spell of the faint, blinkings rays
Of the hibernated sun,
Zipped by the pale, urgent moonlight.
They met, they wandered, withered with the moon,
In their own planet, love, the only language of the living.
The sky, a euphoria of lofty colors
Threw sparks upon their faces.
They looked up, and down,
Coiled in each other’s faces, sitting
Rapt beside a drunken, luscious river,
Counting baby faces in the translucent water bodies.
The faces, playful, indolent, unbound, never knowing
The toxins, foul smells, the ground zero of the city.
They laugh, rolling, rippling, flowing,
Tiny petals of music, poetry and love,
Fingers kissing dewdrops, evolving
Into a saga of childhood love,
Twinkling dim, blinking out, withering away.
In a tangle of two souls, spread out
Like a flowered skirt, the drunken lovers
Surrendered their lavender blossoms.
The stale night whispered, venom sprung
Out of the earth’s crust.
And while the green pastures waxed and waned
With the pale, cold moon,
Deadly ghosts spitting misery, trampled over
Their flesh, bones and honeyed dreams.
The drunken lovers and the moon, consumed in embrace
Quivered, fluttered wings beneath the deadening cacophony.
The river called them out in ripples
And the unwavering smell of love.
And they gripped, grouched in the dark planet,
Love, the only language of the living.
(C) Lopa Banerjee. October 23, 2014