Your face as a heliograph

pinioned to the dark night

Does anyone know your prayer for the last syllable

like an embryo beneath rumbles

The lamp outposts inversed looking into your wounds, the uneasiness of a muzzeine’s cry

unsure of a prayer ( a pause between-)

Your wings, crumpled papers, against the luminous golden mosque spread wide- an ice berg sky.

No one knows the brevity of good byes

rolled in hands twirling and you let go

of your shudder between a death and a life unborn

Dead scarred faces crouch on your blemished breasts

Mother, their parched lips twisted in an attempt to bury their last hunger

your milk collected in small pools of blood in an inverse skeletal head

Rain, more rain dismantles the world.

There are mountains ahead

A peak that garlands the sun’s eyes

bathing in the saffron of sacrilege.

Beyond them no one knows

No one wants to know

A strong gust of wind once blew out a candle and everything else –

                                                                              ~ Ritamvara Bhattacharya 

                                                                                     India