They were having their supper,
As the homeless birds kissed warm vapours of the fluctuating horizon.
A surreptitious retreat in the quest for a warm summer !
The naked waist’s love for sandal paste, washed feet, melting sindoor –
Waiting loses its urge in the rebel’s world,
Who waits for a burnt up promise, a sold out bullet, a traumatized moment’s mad triumph over faithless love; loveless faith.
” Do or Die!”
Their brown skin and white dreams transformed merciless screams.
The Jew’s chantings failed to purify the Gas Chamber.
“Remember! Blood still gushes out of the Stoney walls of Jaliwanwalabagh.”
1857 awakened the Slumberous Soul of the beaten up Native’s
Who can tell me what happened as they marched forward playing with the categorised shadows, loveless spirits, split up land
As Bangla was treated as a plaything in the other’s hands ?
My genderless, voiceless soul loves to dance the dance of Tandava, Ravana,
The darkest entity of absolute purity.
My blood pines for absolute Nirvana.
Trance of trauma or death of perennial moments of passionless drama !
Neither man, nor woman !
Something without gender, trust, trauma, centre perished my voiceless self’s stolen anger !
And God holds my split up land in his arms.
” Do or Die!”
But never, never lie
When the panting bride paints her face with melting sandal paste,
With swollen womb absorbing bloodstained sweat
Of the hanged rebel.
The Nation still waits for a turbulent romance with eternal unrest.