T3 শারদ সংখ্যা ২০২২ || তব অচিন্ত্য রূপ || বিশেষ সংখ্যায় Gopal Lahiri
A smile burns and comes through the round canvas
drawing a womb on the table cloth.
As if a finger runs over my back, an insect
get stuck inside, fallen inside my body.
Its grin as knowing as its vacant look, my face
is falling down in a stone basin, down drunk.
Now that I am amber, I am red, rising in flames,
in my deep, most hidden face, in underground,
enclosures separate me and the darkness forever.
How much time you contain in the beady eye?
an hourglass in my hand, a place of refuge-
sand increasing and dwindling all at once.
It is right here, the ending, you circle around,
the figures are whirling yet still in a frozen ballet.
Words are filling the broken wall
I try to sleep.
The balance is never made.
I drop the bowl of laughter in dream
smell the earth in my palm,
the heart beats faster and faster.
Warm as the fire, the low whispers
conspire to disappear in silence,
correcting the dialectics of night.
Time is indifferent to history.