Poetry – Wribhu Chattopadhyay

A Shrouding Time           

A pale ocher line shrouds the moment
And only hearses are on the queue.
Epitaphs and elegies embezzle the snivel,
And memory oscillates to and fro.
I am within these four walls, and trying to live
Among the cadavers of my kith and kin.
Only the unrecognised figures of special body wig are
Seen in scurry. Night nudge like a snail and life too.
I have not heard the temple bell for so long time,
Even the Gods are behind the bar.
Hacking, sneezing and fever cripple my land.

I have to touch my own chest,
If it throbs still.

You cannot be  

 Scattered bread and flesh blot of blood
Like the curry and you cannot be blamed.
Freight, head light and shriek and then
The catastrophe, but you cannot be blamed.
Weary feet and tottering of several miles
And perspiration is only an option for drinking,
But you cannot be blamed.
When line is just a cot and stone is
A synonym of cushion,
When home coming is an urge
But is measured as a gag,
And life is just a number
But still, you cannot be blamed.