One moment passed through the green shade
Of the longwoods.
Humans of molten iron
Forge saws and cranes out of their glances
Humans of baked flour
Forge knives and hammer out of their tongues
spewing blood, cough and hatred
Humans, dead or alive
Carry the nameplates
Death dealers, Murderers, Casualties.
Standing at the bifurcation
I see the longwoods
dyed with fairy tales,
matted with blood in the small boy’s cheek.
Books piling up
Scriptures in streets as detectors of masquerades
Patriots, Doctors, Police, Statesmen.
I pass by unnoticed
holding the hand of the deceased infant I have just met.
Just born, just dead, she sees nothin’
But straight into the longwoods
or the tales of it
Sun shines high above.
They haven’t been born yet
And we have been from the death of births.
The longwood trees
Dodos with unhatched eggs
And we pass by unnoticed.
We are not born,
Not dead yet.
Purnojit Haldar is a Researcher, Poet and Freelance Writer, hailing from Malda, West Bengal. He currently lives in Kolkata. To follow his blog, click www.purnojithaldar.blogspot.in