Bazi alis Subrata Ray
The Tempest From The Unconscious.
The links to the senses were boomeranged,
The planted traps on pleasure house licked dismay,
The traditional gay haggard in the weary mirage,
The Nature’s cycle stood –still in autumnal –winter.
All yesterdays’ hope-ridden dreams breathe smokes,
Of kind as foul odor from the heaps of dead-bodies,
Half eaten and stored booties, wasted in a harem,
Rise and whisper, whisper and rise as phantom-locus.
The earth and the stars receded, departed the memories,
The Time -left –un-rotten corpse wished the confession!
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