By
Gopal Lahiri
Pumice
Burn from the past
the crushed pumice, the glassy rock
holding the only promise of
slipping backwards in the
russet wall of silence.
our voices never scale heights
as if they haven’t seen the ground
from the summit,
the joy of witnessing rugged terrain
bleeding in sunshine.
here everything is interlocked
no room for view
time dilates the look of the frozen night
a world sealing off hermetically.
can’t be hurried.
rustle of banana leaves
erupts into meaning in dark night
emptying our hopes and desire
lie down, listen to the wind.
where is that canary yellow moon?
the face isn’t clear,
the darkness so deep,
not too secure in the pale light.
lingering behind the mute celebrations.
Go Live
On the edge of modernity
The stories of the first world
wooing investors
Like the paper and ribbon memory
of childhood
Buried under the stale concrete,
Too sensitive to endure
The pigeons perch
on the lamppost to settle life
Not to dig wet sands in search of water,
unlike the river plays
backwards with the ripples
Shimmering on the Ganga river
the floating diyas,
The ghats are drawn in fairy lights
Sitting before the wall
splashed with quirky graffiti
The priests chanting Sanskrit mantras.
Fading slowly the echo
in the distant temple spires
With the baggage
of heritage and history
And stinks and filth on the street corner,
concealed by the glory of the setting sun.
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