A PRIVATE WOUND
In this setting sun of the spring
Thousands wet eyes under the azure sky…
Thousands already dead
Life is fragile, so is love
Tired souls, time never waits
Moss grows in the bleeding heart
Lock down at home
Silence of graveyard
Deepening fear of virus
At a distance.
Chime of temple bells, prayers
Bidding adieu
Left behind the syllables of life and death
Terror hides in this deceitful spring
Barren roads, voices lost in the wind
Sun will rise again
From the ruin of death
For you leaving behind tuberose burnt
And my heart into pieces…
Asoke Kumar Mitra,
Writer
Kolkata, West Bengal
