Abu Sufian

Light vs Darkness

When mind dwells in between
light and darkness,
good and evil;
mind doesn’t know what dominates:
is it the temporary light,
or infinite and endless darkness?

 

 

Not for the Flowers

I waited for ages,

longed for your presence,

tormented my soul with

the agony of love

and with the yearning for your flowers.

 

Having rained down with your flowers

and mesmerized with their enthralling fragrance,

I grasped the meaning of my longing.

It wasn’t for the innocent flowers,

nor was it the alluring fragrance;

it was you for whom the heart hankered after;

and it is you, it will long forever.

 

Of Men’s Jealousy

Of men’s jealousy

of God’s wrath

of destiny unknown

that split up our paths forever.

 

You will never be mine,

cause it was not destined

in the divine writ

written and endorsed without consent

without our submission of the yearnings

of our crying souls.

 

Beyond Desire

She was desperate to know

how much I care and love her,

how love resides in my heart in her absence!

 

I replied with sigh and assurance:

‘Wherever you are and will be.

Remember and believe by heart,

someone loves you passionately,

far from your soul,

at a distant corner of the world.

 

And he doesn’t depend on your love

to love you.

His love is beyond expectation,

beyond desire,

beyond condition of any sort,

beyond everything except Love,

Love with a capital L.’

 

The Distant Star

The distant star has a story,

just like us,

just like our sun!

Her story is unknown to us,

concealed from all our hearings and visions.

 

I see the dim light

from billions of light years away,

gazing at the pale white dots.

 

I wonder whether someone else,

from a distant star

is peeping through window

looking for us,

just the way we behold;

seeking for answers,

just the way I seek;

gazing at me,

just the way I stare

at the infinite heaven

beneath and above.

 

Abu Sufian – who is also known as The Silent Poet – was born in 1989 in Comilla, Bangladesh. He is a poet, journalist and social worker whose writings have appeared in many national and international publications that include newspaper, magazine, literary journals and books. Sufian currently lives in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and he can be reached at his official Facebook poetry page, The Silent Poet (facebook.com/Sufian.Author). During his undergraduate years, he fell in love with the poetic world. Finishing his bachelor, he moved to Malaysia in 2013 earned his MA degree in English literature. During studying English literature, he has been exposed to Sufi poets like Rumi, Saadi Shirazi, Hafiz, Omar Khayyam. His poems have been greatly influenced by these Sufi and mystic writers. And his poems have been published in literary journals including Scarlet Leaf Review, Criterion, Literary Voyage, The Literary Herald, Tuck Magazine, Clairvoyance, and also in the poetry anthologies, Voice of Monarch Butterflies (2016) and Apple Fruits of an Old Oak (2016), both anthologies were published from USA. His poems have been accepted for publications in two more international anthologies: Where Are You From? and Dandelion in a Vase of Roses.

Faiz Ahmad

COLD EXISTENCE

Tonight
If you rest your hand upon
This strange silence of mine,
You maybe reminded
Of a cold stone
Aching to feel the road’s endless sadness
Or you maybe reminded
Of words that lost their
Warmth as they became distant.
Tonight
The wind is indistinguishable
From its absence.
Tonight
All of my existence
Is staring back at me
With its blank, unblinking eyes – freedom laden.
Where shall I flee?
Where shall I flee?

I, who stretched my arms
To match time,
Am thirsty like an empty cup,
Thirsty for clusters of violet
That grow if a window opens itself.
A cupboard is wide
Sometimes wider than those moments
When I had nothing to do.
I am cold like that stone
And imagine how cold
Would the soil’s cry be,
If sunlight became tired and heavy
Before it could reach the earth’s lips.

 

Tonight
I no longer wonder
At the fact that my dreams
Have lost their sleeping place
As I stare at the swinging of mirrors
From my lonely bed.
Tonight
I shall turn my face away
From those offers
That promised truth in their
Vague, colourless hands.
Tonight
I became a white cloud of my thoughts
I became a gap sunken in the
Ambiguity of two sleeps.
Yes, I am scattered across time
And my heart is witnessing
The birth of eternal longings.

 

LIFE AND NOTHING MORE

I have lived on shores
For too long
And like a matchstick
Amidst so many more matchsticks,
I am well aware of my insignificance.

I have loved
And I have fainted like
Leaves in the embrace of light.
I have loved
And I have seen
How minute all else appears from heights.
I have loved
Until my heart contained only horizons.

I have heard people exclaim
‘Perhaps life shall shed its skin soon’.
I have seen the youth of banyan tree
Descending into the earth.
I have seen death turning yellow
In the arms of leaves.

The thought of death
Burst upon my dinner table
And I picked up
Of what was left of my freedom.
My feet have no
More hunger left in them.
(My feet that once
Feasted on rain rich soil
And love struck alleyways
And playful dream-laden grass.)
My maze like journey through these
Sorrowful roads,
Caused the rise of languages
Within my soul.

The dried up throat of my soul
Coughed, and the
Moist passage of wind between the door and
The window of time,
(Time has room like properties:
Square, man-made and
Full of shelves, closets and wardrobes)
Caused my eyes to turn outwards.

 

REALIZATION

I shall s p r e a d myself
In front of my eyes
To become a lake for
Fishes born out of my
Loneliness.

 

A HOPEFUL FLIGHT

My heart is full of windows
That open to the green pastures of leisure
That open to the direction of wind
That open to the transformation of shadows.

The journey to friend’s home
Is ripe with metaphors
Behind blue doors
And remember
To not grieve
When the heart sheds its clothes
Beside the pregnant lake of loneliness.

The sky may extend
A friendly hand to
A sad faced passerby
And dreams shall hatch
Like eggs
In his eyes.

In this room
In this ashen room
Of my small existence,
A bird on the rooftop is spreading its wings,
As gently as life in my palm,
With hope drawn from a child’s breast
I shall soar above green dreams.

 

THE PRIMEVAL CALL

I am alone
And someone is calling my name
From beyond the seas of the world.
My hands are weak
And the moments escape
From the edge of my fingertips.

My bed is cold
And my eyes always watch the
Longest part of night on the wall.
I am sad,
Sad like the pen that
Travels along the white page of separation.

I talked to the people of this town.
There is no breeze that
Blows over their words.
Nobody takes the shade of
The oldest palm seriously.
I saw shadows that open their wings
Above every sleeping man.

There have been moments of delight too.
I met a woman in spring time,
Who was so lost in comprehending the flowers
That their colours sang hymns
Right in her eyes.
I saw a poet who,
Like a cloud,
Was full of rain that washes the words.
I saw many children,
Their hearts full of balloons
That had escaped into the winds of time.

Someone is calling me again.
I shall leave this place.
I shall sail with the waves.
I shall sail with two dreams on my lips.

The walls around the loneliness
Of a fish shall break,
And the blue song of sea shall pour.
Dawn shall overtake my boat
And lead me into the
Widest expanse of fables.
The sky shall drift into my silence
And like a bud,
I shall blossom from the ancient soil.

 

Faiz Ahmad is  the founder of healthcare startup, Orbuculum and he hs a passionate interest in poetry as an art form for understanding life. His poems have been published in Indian Literature Magazine of Sahitya Akademi.

Pitambar Naik

Fury

Those spicy dreams dangle. A thirsty summer river

Smoldering for months gets back to life, there’s an age-old famine

Just a cold touch is relishing for the soul

Here around me a fence, your intimacy of turquoise fur

That’s amazingly sumptuous, what else could be sought again?

That old familiar song I hear on the top floor next to mine

It’s so hallucinogenic like mild kisses of the spring winds

Even it’s more like a few strokes from your fatty lips

I am hanging out on the verge of a deceptive evening

The wall clock above stops to take a glimpse of us

Night becomes a late drowsy winter afternoon; pregnant and lazy

All the panicked pain departs in haste, a sky of bliss spreads

Only the fury of restless ecstasy of an entombed history whines

The tide on the shore of our past lies prostrate, cool

My muscles twirl, a utopian octopus shies away

I am arrested and captivated like a moth or metaphor.

This terribly dry land now goes wild again

A fire mishap in between us gutters the monochromatic sorrows

And a hurricane from the North Pole

You ceaselessly gnash your blood-stained teeth till mid-night.

 

 

Sweet Carols of Christmas

Silver crease around the eyes, your words are smooth like rose petals

The freshest spring descends surreptitiously as you yawn

We walked tirelessly hand in hand those years

Thinking to sweeten the conjugation of our chemistry

The upbeat presence of my divorced intimacy

Clung to your ripe innocence, I had no option left with

I said goodbye to the diluted seasons

A mendicant in me was unsure of leaving everything in between us.

Now, whom can I trust? I bank on yet a deceptive camaraderie

The oppressive touches of a heinous past

Just a few flicks of our remembrance from the pages of history tickle me.

I unlocked your tightly-clasped knots, a potpourri of fluorescent vivacity

Rhythms of a luscious heart

The most admired artistic audacity that I loved

Where did we begin our journey from? I don’t remember

That’s been so antique now, but it was an evening of Christmas carols

At the doorpost of your duplex a sedative concoction

Swaddled with charming bougainvillea

Often I feel approaching you over again and rush where you lay peacefully!!

Pitambar Naik was born and raised in Odisha in India. He is an advertising copywriter based in Hyderabad and writes poetry and non-fiction in English. He has been featured in journals such as Brown Critique, Spark Magazine, CLRI, Indian Review, Indian Ruminations, Galaxy-IMRJ, UK, Hunter Poems, UK, Muse India, HEArt Online, Fair Folk-A Magazine of Fantastic, Tuck Magazine  in the USA, Indian Periodical, Hans India, The New Indian Express, Metaphor in the Philippines, and Bhashabandhan Review in the USA and elsewhere. Some of his poems are due to be featured in the Kitab, Singapore and Prachya Review in Bangladesh. He can be reached at pitambarnaikwriter@gmail.com

Deepankar Shivamurti

Songs of Jogi

Renunciation of King Bharthari

Holding Sarangi in his hands

Bharthari walks on the pathway to the forest

The gloom appears to be all around!

Renouncing the royal palace, his majesty became a beggar

Bharthari wanders, wrapping tatters around his neck.

Getting his garments suffused into saffron

Hangs about begging, Bharthari

Rubbing cinder all over his body

At the behest of Guru Gorakh

Bharthari wanders, wrapping tatters around his neck.

Clinging to the tatters, Shyamdei (the queen)  beats her breast

Mourning in many ways

‘Now which fruitful bough

I shall tend to, my lord?’

Bharthari wanders, wrapping tatters around his neck.

‘Listen, queen!’ says Bharthari

It is vain to lament anymore

Take your realm n reign and be merry!

My lady, I do not desire kingdom anymore

Bharthari wanders, wrapping tatters around his neck.

In an agonized tone, Shyamdei cries

Listen,  Bharthari, sagacious sage!

If you were to become a monk

Why did you tie the knot, then?

Heeding nothing, king Bharthari, firmed in resolve

The queen fell unconscious on the bed and darkness spread all around!

Holding Sarangi in his hand,  Bharthari walks on the pathway to the forest

The gloom appears to be all around!

 

जोगियों का गीत- 1

राजा भरथरी का सन्यास

हथवा लेहे सारंगी बन के धरे डगरिया

अन्हरिया चारो ओर से रही!

छोड़ि के आपन राज महलिया राजा बने भिखरिया

गुदरिया गर में डारे भरथरी

जोगी बन के चले भरथरी

गेरुआ वस्त्र रंगाई

गुरु गोरख से आज्ञा पाकर, तन पर भस्म रमाई

गुदरिया गर में…

गुदरी पकड़ि के श्यामदेई रोअईं

बहुबिधि रुदन मचाई

राजन फरी उनईबई केकर लेइ हम डरिया

गुदरिया गर में…

कहे भरथरी सुना हो रनिया, अब जिन रुदन मचावा

लेइल आपन राज रियासत, बैठे मौज उड़ावा

रनिया हमै न चाहे, कोठी महल अटरिया

गुदरिया गर में…

तड़पि-तड़पि के श्यामदेइ बोलि

सुना हो भरथरी ज्ञानी,

तोहका जोगी बनइके रहा, का कर ब्याह रचाया

राजा भरथरी एक न मानी, अपनी जिद्द बढाई

रनिया गिरन सेज पर, छाइ गईल अन्हरिया

 

The Jogi (also spelled Yogi) are a Hindu sect (nath sampraday), found in North India and Sindh, with smaller numbers in the southern Indian states of Maharashtra, Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh, Tamil Nadu and Kerla.

The Jogi are followers of Yoga and worshippers of the Hindu god Shiva. They are wanderers and sing the songs of ‘Vairagya’ playing Sarangi.
Translated by Deepankar Shivamurti.

Sushilkumar Shinde

Salma

Salma, when you are in front of me
I get choked,
Dissipate the energy and can’t even to write about you
The earth which tear its heart for
Sita is startled over your grief.

When you take nipple out of your baby’s mouth,
To show it to customer
how much tearing happen in your heart?

While surrendering his brothel-some behaviour
how many times image of your baby,
who is slept with the help of afim, passes through your eyes?

‘Saab,smile a little, life is like that ‘ you say and leave in search of new customer.
Dolly,Ruksnaa ,and this Hasina
all of you are ingrained depth in my brain,

and I keep churning out the words like coward,
while you are coping with all those rapes throughout the life,
and this city take a sleepy cover of immunity.

Salma your brevity is really great.

(Translated from Marathi by Mr. Shahsikant Sawant)

The City

This city has rented out
Dreams, hopes and ambitions
Underneath this garbage

The intense desire has an odorous tang
Like ordure
Difficult to tolerate, hide & repress
Buffed and puffed roads
Giant buildings
Leisurely large footpath
Well disciplined traffic
Oh! How beautiful it is to dream…
But thus remains this city deranged and illusioned

Coition on the footpath
Renders open-born broods
And the city takes them in its elastic arms

Pollution has turned this city into an eye with cataract
How peacefully it absorbs ear deafening noises
Buffed and puffed roads ooze
Blood of someone innocent
The bleeding bloody city
Licks its wounds
Like a helpless dog
When Skyscrapers are infected by ringworms
Bulldozers come handy
Slums are set on fire
Sometimes cylinders blow up in a row
Like firecrackers in Diwali
Then the city offers shelter
To the homeless slum-dwellers
Seldom has it covered with shawl
The dirty dusky breastfeeding kids

This city keeps living with uncertain affinity
Tolerating odorous haughtiness
Inhumanly and helplessly
Buffed and puffed roads
Giant buildings
Leisurely large footpath
And well disciplined traffic
Underneath this garbage
This city has rented out
Dreams, hopes and ambitions

English Translation by Maheshleelapandit
From the collection of Marathi Poems Shara aatmahatya karayacha mhantay
By Sushilkumar Shinde

Sushilkumar Shinde ( B 1988) is a promising young voice in the contemporary Marathi Poetry. His first collection of poetry Shahar Atmahatya Karayach Mhantay (The city on the verge suicide), published in 2016, won him the various state prestigious awards and highly appreciated in reader and critics. His poems have been included in various anthologies of Marathi and also published in Indian literature ( Sahitya Akademi.)

Poornima Laxmeshwar

What do I name this?

Two law abiding citizens
Two bodies, two lives; intertwined stories
Where the love of one flows into another
In breaths, in kisses under the soft skies of a late evening
But then
Two faiths also divide them
While the pub “Sherlock Homes” keeps them amused
The emptying draught beers
Speaks in pints, in tongues so twisted
That the windows portray a green marriage registrar’s office
In black and bold, ever-so-inviting on Coles Road
Displaying illusions of a forever happiness

The quilt of darkness overshadows
The warmth demands an assurance
And they hunt down a hotel with faux leather sofas
Wooden flooring, promising privacy, screaming some good times

“What can they tell about my faith from the name?”
Murmurs the atheist of the two
While the hotel owner looks upon them with holy eyes
Beams chastity; seeks identities
Refuses bluntly
Because their religions don’t match when pronounced
Even with a deft diction

Two law abiding consenting citizens
Paying the taxes on-time every year
Fail to claim their meagre share of love
In the name of law and order
By now, the beer is ready to leak.

 

 

A god in every stone

Who says clouds are weightless
Ask my heart awaiting the rains
I feel like a land of drought
Seeking an embrace – year after year
I did pray in the Mahamaya temple at the village
They insisted on it
Remember the two stones at the entrance
Smudged with haldi, kumkum and oil
They said if I could lift both of them together
All my wishes would be fulfilled
But I was either scared to discover to unravel the secret
Or unsure about what the time held in its closed palms
I left the wish burn within me
Like the lamp I lit in your name
And as I took leave of the goddess
Standing in emerald saree with a pink nathani glowing
On her face, with eyes full of rage
I found that my shoes were missing
Just like you went away
Without even a hint.

 

Poornima Laxmeshwar resides in the garden city Bangalore and works as a content writer for a living.

Ritwik Ghosh

 

                                                                          Ode

                                                                     Jurassic life

 

                                                                             1

 

The eternal voyage of the moon brings ripeness,

In the meadows silent stream,

Murmuring memory embraces happy reflection, and

Sweet thought pours in rain droplet counterpoint.

In the warm shade of Caytonia, and

In the cool shade of Kuklia,

Libellulium rests under the venation of the night sky.

Above flies the lofty winged Rhamphorhynchus,

A herd of Mamenchisaurus meets the treetops,

Underneath the canopy Sinoconodon lurks in hidden time,

Life strives to renew complexity,

For the moment is ever falling and without renewal,

All triumph goes to the grave.

In the depth of darkling night, from deep slumber, Spinosaurus awakens.

 

                                                                     2

The magnolia buds open inviting the bees,

Mauldinia and Nathorstiana embalm the dark forest,

By the rivers green banks Simosuchus chews herbs and plants.

Euoplocephalus walks in majestic happiness, easeful and wild.

In the dense forest foliage Parasaurolophus is in melody.

Volaticotherium glide through the green trees,

In rounded joy eggs are cared for by Maiasaura,

Diplodocus waves its slender tail tip in outstretched wonder,

The tender tree top is surveyed by Brachiosaurus.

Stegosaurus leisurely chews its leaves,

Carcharodontosaurus silently walks in the dense foliage,

Its careful stride stipples the ground,

It watches a herd of placid Edmontosaurus,

With agile force the scimitars of Vishnu open,

Gaping blood trickles and gushes,

In the distance, in the nest, Carcharodontosaurus hatchlings,

By Beelzebufo are gobbled.

                                                                                     3

In the strange sea swim millenial polypi,

Colossal turtles, fish and squid swim free,

Elasmosaurus swims its long neck into the azure.

Kronosaurus swims in search of millennial fish.

Mosasaurus with its serrated, sharp teeth, looks for teeming life,

Above the waters soars Quetzalcoatlus searching for majestic food,

Ammonites flow in innumerable joy,

Mosasaurus in searching of Protostega, is bitten by Megalodon.

 

                                                                                 4

In the forests of ferns, cycads and conifers,

Of Weichselia, of cycadeoidea and Archaeanthus,

Tranquill herds of Lambeosaurus gorge, and

Frolic with the babbling brooklets,

A Tyrannosaurus looks through the dark vegetation,

It gently raises its head, to smell the wide world,

It imagines its reign will endure forever.

 

 

Ode

Shepherd

1

The shepherd falls asleep under a tree,

The shepherd dog bravely guides the sheep into their home.

2

The shepherd dog barks and runs to get a sheep that strayed,

into the shed.

3

The shepherd dog awakes,

and attempts to get the sheep moving back home,

from their pastureland,

Misled by error,

the sheep scatter,

The sheep go astray,

each destined to get lost in its own way.

 

Ritwik Ghosh is the author of two books of poems,” The Democracy of dreams”
and “The Art of the Ode”.

Payal Phukan

I Refuse
You peeled me as an orange, mercilessly
quenched your thirst with
my blood oozing out from
a broken honeycomb.
You ground my bones into sugar
and sprinkled the crumble
on your favourite dessert.
You feasted on morsels of my soul,
rubbing off every fragment
of my morale that spilled
from the corners of your mouth.
You abandoned me like a crater
trapped forever in loops
of existential crisis.

But I refuse to be an exhausted constellation,
its contours dotted
with too many greasy fingers.
I will be a written word, a tale
that will pass down from generations,
forging weapons from fossils buried
in layers of ancestral mud,
quietly distorting the intricate pattern
of your genomes that nestle
in the roots of your hair
and proudly claim to be your identity.

On nights when you drift
to a peaceful sleep, I shall be the venomous snake
that curls around your neck
like summer air, spitting
its poison down the dough of your chest
to the hollow,
vehemently deny forgiveness
as I watch snippets of life
crawl out of you
along with the parts of me
and the creed
that you had digested.

Born and brought up in Guwahati, Payal Phukan is an engineer who escapes from the world of data and numbers by playing with words. She is an emerging poet with a few publications online. She perceives poetry as a way to connect with the thoughts and emotions which shy away from her otherwise. Besides poetry, she loves painting and playing chess.

 

Nilotpal Sarmah

FOG AND MONUMENTS

History’s grimy womb has spit them out.
Now watch them bathe in the chill and moss
And bask in the light of the mind to stem out
A landscape of truths in mystery embossed.

Like the dewy, vernal breasts of mother Spring
Who shares emerald milk with the untamed
Let these dusty, rusted children of time bring
Light upon the truths unsung and unnamed

The fog drapes over like a ghostly curtain
whose cold contours give way to the grainy past
Curiosity through this window ingrains
Ancestry’s spark and its enlightening blast.

Like the ghosts of victors, the fog assails
Through a chilly tint of losses and deaths
The hungry mind whose parched terrain avails
Of truths through hauntings of ever-graying shades

TAXIDERMY
The dead blue sky has finally been
stitched with lightning and
Infused with grey pregnant clouds!
But what of the taxidermy that the flood-mauled land awaits?
How long will she have to wait till her reconfiguration?

Ah! It is a seasonal treat concocted by
the threads of sorrow,
the needle of bereavement,
the embalming nectar of despair!

She shall be bathed in tears,
bejeweled in broken houses and bloated corpses.
She will yet again make a perfect bride to
the diligent taxidermist, that is TIME!

 

NOSTRILS

The caves are ancient and wise.
Aided by the crimson rhythm from deep within,
they whistle out olfactory streams in
a life-affirming musicality.

As for the planetary nostrils that our
jumbled heap of sentience clogs, they are
a moss-jeweled necropolis
for life’s incense-muffled shrine
or for piety’s ubiquitous roadkill.

The mortician hangs from the
mucosal noose and
every sneeze is a slimy elegy.
Rest in peace O utopian vision!

 

TOMBSTONES MADE OF GUITARS

Many a pensive souls have been grated
to poetic shreds by these stringed vermin.
It is only fair that their final resting places be
marked by these melodious culprits.

O how the vermin used to bestow order
upon gloom’s infesting dissonance!
Their presence fossilized sorrow and extracted
sweet elegies out of the stubborn amber.

No flowers shall wreathe these tombstones,
No tears shall stain their harmonious frames,
For they are regularly bathed in the
sporadic downpours that emotions swirl up.
Let the grateful winds of inspiration strum
out some odes from this stringed scenery of decay.

TO THE MOON
Paint me some thoughts, O silver castaway!
As I trace your sordid cosmic journey,
An eternal crawl across the ebony
sea that kisses the golden shore of day.
Upon the blackened canvas of my gloom
That stands upon sturdy thoughts of despair
In stellar streams route and shed your cold tears,
Their murmur – the siren call of my doom!
A doom whose cold source I fail to discern
eclipsed by my blissful memories of yore
where ubiquitous your cold presence burns
an elusive warmth is its quaint downpour
Like your cosmic plight salvaged by daylight.
My scarred hope yearns for the shore’s faintest sight.

 

Nilotpal Sarmah is a content writer by profession hailing from the North-Eastern Indian state of Assa, currently residing in the Indian city of Bangalore. A poet by intellect, he has been putting his thoughts in the written form from an early age and is writing in the hope of seeing his work in book form someday. His work has been published in literary journals like Illyas honey and Ashwamegh journal.

Mousumi Ghosh

Skyscraper
 
When did she hear last the sound of chirping birds ?
 
Was it when the sky was last seen blue ?
 
Or was it when the ocean danced in different palettes of hue?
 
May be when the Spring was unfurling the coat of snow,
 
Or may be in the warmth of the Autumn glow.
 
She heard last the sound of the chirping birds
 
When Juniper was laid to rest ,
 
To light atop the tallest mast.
 
                       
 
 
Illusion
 
 
 
He loved her for being the mother ,
 
She could never have been .
 
He loved her for being the wife
 
She never was …..
 
He loved her for being the lover…
 
Which she had acted so fine.
 
He loved her for being the friend,
 
When a foe was even better .
 
He had never loved her ……
 
For being what she was,
 
He had never loved her for being a human,
 
Made of flesh and blood.
 
                      
 
 
 
Solace
 
She looks intently at the mirror,
 
What do those eyes tell her?
 
Do they whisper the hundreds of thousand desires?
 
Or they speak of the latent passion, which is
 
Nothing but despair.
 
As the blue sky seeks solace from the burnt of the dazzling sun ,
 
By drowning all its colours…
 
In the vast endless ocean.
 
She too tries to escape the burning heat of passion ,
 
By drenching her parched soul ,
 
In his eyes deep with the color of adoration.
 
Meanwhile the gramaphone plays
 
‘kosish karke dekhle…daria sari….nadia sari
Mousumi Ghosh, works as a Senior Administrator in a reputed school located in Kolkata, West Bengal, India.She started writing poetries in English from a very young age and has her own blog .Her love for poetry and her passion for writing has led some of her poetries published in local magazines, e-magazines in India and abroad.