by Chaitali Sengupta
Past
In the throngs of those trees,
there,
where shadows separate, and
the mustard sun blaze…
You could have been there.
(Or, I thought so.)
But now, I know better.
For, you’re gone.
And there, where the mustard sun blazed
only yellowing
leaves of autumn
litter with my past.
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Illusion
When the summer ends
and the leaves fall…
gracefully, without any regrets,
any desires…
any attachments…
any afterthoughts…
Yet, whispering the promise
of return,
with another season,
another riot of colors,
another etching,
another dream,
another awakening into autumn…
like a poem, that says
permanence is an illusion.
.
“I can’t breathe”
Each one, with a stone in our hand
seek the other out
in darkness. We fumble not. No.
Each one
with a stone in our hand
seek the other out.
Only to kill.
For we know not
anymore, how to co-exist.
And though our fates
are common and bound,
we’ve become people
who choose
not to hear,
the cry that rends the air,
“I can’t breathe.”
.
Virus
Despite the virus,
Despite the fear,
Despite the deaths,
The flowers bloom.
The birds chirp.
The sky is blue and pink.
The days are longer.
The sun warmer.
The spring gifting
her wondrous colors.
And teaching us
the power of life.
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Chaitali Sengupta is a published writer, translator, journalist from the Netherlands. She is involved in various literary & journalistic writing & translation projects for Dutch media houses, online platforms & various social organizations in the Netherlands and in India. Her recently published translated work “Quiet Whispers of our Heart” received rare reviews and popular acclaim.
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