By Gopal Lahiri
Sometimes words are torn polythene bag
deflowered by pain and wounds.
the forest have shrunk
the wise men once played a vital role but
they are less human now.
the tiny birds and bees are in uncertain future
animal skeletons lay bare, dusted leaves,
who can be our best allies?
Sometimes words are bold and luminous
bring fish bones and charcoal night.
We’re told- the furnace faces push the barriers
the grey morning rustles in silence.
the attacks withstood, care for nothing else,
of escaping from long suffering.
Sometimes words are secret seeds
they bring new metaphors for life.