Sunday Poem By Jagari Mukherjee


With thanks to Yunna Morits

The potion from the wizard’s cauldron
peeled off my soul. Left a scar.
The soft neon firelight is now a veiled rose.
There goes the crowd casting stones
that touch and hurt and turn turquoise.
My ruins are ancient with an
undeciphered script. Yet a
moon-wash on certain nights
fills a poet’s soul with
witchcraft longings.
Light still enters my ruins.
It glimmers like a star.
ফেসবুক দিয়ে আপনার মন্তব্য করুন
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