The Last Adolescence I fail to grasp this bohemian life, wandering aimlessly all-day seeking refuge. Sometimes resting upon your shoulders, there finding solace, at times escaping into myself, primarily stifled breaths; now in the blaze of this evening, seated with wounds inflicted. The fatigue of adolescence spreads through the body like dandelion seeds carried by […]
The Last Adolescence Read More »
All through last night, a chilling wind swept through my dreamscape. I witnessed a hawk perched atop the Taj Mahal’s dome, gazing towards Delhi’s Lotus Temple. I observed some khaki half pants, draped like mourning banners in a Muharram procession. All these scenes unfolded before me. Gradually, they merged into your dream. There, you embarked
Know that time has healed your wounds, Yet you dread the scars. Even today, as the Baul sings,In your morning disarray, there lies only silence. Whom do you now call your beloved?The abyssal tramlines, or mere the death?
Not just on zebras, Even on your body, there’s a patchwork of stains, Which gets busy on any green signal. Traffic police, Thus, indeed, waves their right hand, Left hand too. Engulfed in comments-likes-shares, Days are passing divine, ‘One week goes by, then comes another week.’ That’s the fun of the buffet system, You can
Is it the mural of Ajanta or India’s map, the debate was about whose artistic qualities were greater? Sumanta was naturally inclined, as he spoke of Chaitya, effortlessly spanning over five hundred and thousand years of history, his eyes brightened; yet, when it came to speaking of the country, I could hardly move an inch
From Ajanta to 1947: Unfolding India’s Independence in Verse Read More »
Archaeological A tram line has passed beneath my pillow, and a new electric crematorium has just been inaugurated beside it. Those who come to fall asleep or to wake up there, all faces seem somewhat familiar to me; as if they have fallen from the same branch. Underneath my pillow, a great city floats in
Four Poems by Rik Amrit Read More »
