Sunday, May 19, 2019

Souradeep Sen writes

On nothingness

April is the cruelest month
But how could one justly exonerate
The demons of June, July and August?
Holy blood being spilt each day
Each month the rose of t'morrow
By cruel, loveless fingers plucked away.

Often as it happens, often -
By some standards almost every week
When at the unprepared altar
Of inglorious days, sans will screaming;
Screaming and prying beyond will
Crying, for necessities one flies overhill.

Which month to blame for our sins?
Which way to look for looking away?
The cup remains, albeit dead flowers
Dead like yesterdays, like stale blood
Like the dread of each arrival, dead -
Like every scare of tearing away.

Perhaps April is the cruelest indeed
Making one weak in too much heat
I know not when to stop, where to yield -
Yes yield to the sanctity of this moment.
Years spent in lies, each wish resign'd
Ground to ashes by this beating time.
 Image result for dead flowers paintings

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