Cartridge

Traversing through
our forests, mines, ditches
dry wood, and tribal life
alas, the blood simmers
over the innocence
of our discussions,
agitates, upon our collective
amnesia.

Reminding us in some Spanish
verse, that it’s safe in an image
where a dream and a nightmare
are both flowers of the same night:
two nudities of the same soma.
The poet, in an attempt to separate
the two, bloodies her hands.

And sings at the edge of night
for the nightmares and flowers
that go by the hundred,
are decimated by her hands.

Night gazes at her white morning,
assuredly gathering her remaining
flowers; quietly looking on
at the ancient cartridge,
that becomes fire in the gun
silently laying about.

‘Where had all this blood stilled’
a bird thinks, whizzing past
beside the jungle.

Sleeplessness

Assuage my sorrow, my country.
Ask less of me.
How your residents are rendered feeble
for the joys of the few.
Famished days; and nights, the same,
For the satisfaction of such few stomachs.

Jungle after jungle replete
with cartridges and rifles
The trees are awake all night
Nothing is able to stay
neither men, nor women, nor children
nor the night, or its mystery.

Night, like a plastic flower, is
now an ordinary thing.

The dream remains pierced in its eye.

A new country
is augmented
in this sleeplessness.

Last Night Passed Yesterday Itself

Crisp breeze, early morning, their redolence
all remain in the heart still,
and the smile that lingers
in the remembrance of that love
which has now become necessary
to forget entirely.

There is far too much sorrow in this time
for everyone. Yet, one has to hope, hope
for contentment. City monuments, still
carry visible stains of blood.

The night of the murder
passed yesterday itself.

* “Sleeplessness” and “Last Night Passed Yesterday Itself” previously appeared on Guftgu.in.