Poetry
My lover . . . a mortal
At every break of dawn,
The white cloaked boatmen wait pensively
Tracking our tiptoes
We perform our pantomime with great elegance
Perennial visions of the snakes still sovereign his mind.
Beheaded snakes, he chants there lying in the
monotonous white reality.
But we still dance with our strings attached.
Most daintily, most impeccably.
Like ballerinas we sway Days pass, years, centuries,
And the rain pours over our mechanized stage.
Each droplet like a magical piece of crystalline
Plays the known melody in my heart.
An old Bengali cinema song, I ask.
He smiles lightly I sense my dreams again:
I am a tune, he is my melody,
I am a poet, he is my emotion,
I am a singer, he is my lyrics And there the famed string-holder
Watches with his chromatic eyes
The beauty of his creation
With great sparkle, he watches away At the halt of the muggy clime,
An aroma overwhelms the powerful enchantment.
The sun beams with such a munificent smile,
That even the blind dream beauty.
Flowers writhe in enigmatic emotions
As the breeze sweeps past our cold, placid feet.
Our lips curve like the
Sturdy muscles of a Greek god It's time.
We whisper to each other with obfuscating subtlety.
It's about time, I say to myself again.
He saw the beheaded white snake.
The snake with the pompous hissing, poised slither.
A tear enthralled my pallid skin.
An opalescent tear
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