Editorial
Of Cacophonies and Calligraphy
Sometimes there is a blockage that is inferred in the soulful dementia of cacophonies. Cacophonies that the city highrises create, cacophonies that last long and taste the fruit of autumn with an indented architecture of their own. The lines, black, cerebral ideas that move on in dark, concentric circles, weave stories of life and time. So there it goes:
The Accused:
Forlorn! The word embittered my soul…
The terrible gust of wind swept across my ember-swashed face across a dusky winter evening,
When the light blew out in the furnace, and you gave a clarion call, about how I was the potential ‘WITCH’…..
The witch-hunters strolled all across the serrated plains and the cloud-capped mountains, till they drove me like a half-eaten moth-ball, rust-laden in the strength of fire….
I did not connive, but shouted to sleep
I did not automate; the throbbing senses could feel your tongues lashing at my eye-lids, my thighs, my lips, my breasts and the furrows under the belly…
The lanterns were still searching for the witch in me, the primeval incantations that had sucked the blood out of your little children…
My barrenness stood against your negotiable fecundity, and I could just have a glimpse of the
War-ravaged world outside,
When the city of lights, music, songs, and poetry resonated with a cruel laughter and blistered my soul with its recurrent gunfire…
I resembled an effigy, a cursed white doll with blue eyes,
To be burnt and bruised and lashed to death, before the world could see
Who the actual ‘WITCH’ was…the mirror still waiting for your approval?
Happy Sunday,
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