A death in a library
A death in the library, he is still warm circled by dead geniuses
on the shelves, he is stretched like still living, the warmth of the black coffee lingering on his lips, a ring for long life on his finger, some dirt
under his nails and some dreams on the closed eyes
Those fingers touched tales of a thousand years.
Now he is gone, nothing this moment
Silence alights on the windowpane--
the sun gathers--
The long night swoops on flapping its wings
"Why, buddy, don't you see, this boy could beat
death by his hara-kiri"-- Aristotle guffaws and says to Descartes.
From the third shelf, Nietzsche mutters, " Aye, Aye, sir! "
Burning Calcutta
Sun is burning you, dear Calcutta,
scorching your dear soul in burning sun.
smut swirls in April wind---
lonesome Krishnachura casting its mellow shadow
by the road, young couple sitting on the waterfront,
some ducks clucking aloud, two swans nibbling at hind feathers, Don’t you think the picture is quite good ?
Once I was there too, not now—
You were near me; you were within me, Calcutta!
Calcutta is burning today, how are you?
Why men, you are sitting calm, you are quiet like icy hell! How long you are sitting there? Don’t you grow old?
Should I go? Two more kisses on cheeks of my Sana!
Two more kisses and I will live forever in the stars and wind.
I will be there in distant tang of an unknown flower.
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