by Bhargab Chatterjee
Catching the fire of a withered flower
you drink from Neptune's tumbler;
your thirst makes a mirror before me.
There colours meet and change all possible shapes
of an usual morning.
death has all colours and shapes
in obvious finitude,
my "Belladonna, the Lady of Rocks"
Out of the yellow paddy field
the shadows of our hunger grow
and perpetuate yesterdays.
"I rebel therefore we exist,"
you say stepping on the floor
of my room;
there we're atheists.