Epithets Of Gold, My Dear... Poem by Rites Ghosh

Fatigues of epithets
round thy neck,
my love:

plougher I am, the eternal-
for thee,
digging from this imagined dust,
harvest of my thoughts:
new trophies, new accolades, and all-
each day -
each new pomegranate of sensuality-

taste this ripe bursts
of my summer love,
and ruby of my mind
soaked in bloody glitter-


beyond this room sun sets

when day's rhyme ends,
the road curves out soon
in uncertainty of the unseen;

people go...come...fated like
busy, blunt time...

necessity pulls me down-

on the dreary street
fighters rough up,
diggers of life hold
hovels, spades and sweats

like them, tired I am walking down
my shadows long-

like street dogs they roar
for a piece of bread;

outside my windows
whispers of pestilence,
outside his doors
decay's wounds-

each day I live concocted,
both for you
and for my bread...
in the headlong clamour
and shadows and strife
and fatigues...

I dig for thee
epithets of gold...