KRISHNA BOSE
The day broke
like a cold shock
of winter rain, storming
old fortresses of thought, which once
walled us close in bladed growth
walking up the hooded night
with arms of light - footed delight.
Whose blood - riddled voices do I hear
stabbing the ribs of the mildew air
as sizzling pain of lost legend
swears above the city’s gates
and breasts wild as waves
sing in strife - torn languages
of a sore - filled avalanche
as pulses wandering anywhere
bleat with the despair of lost stars.
Eyes blacken with the summers wreckage
round our waists
as rivulets of black shadows
bob on the window, deepening
the sweat on the brows, as
every moment like a striking snake
hits with a low blow of century’s turn
from light to dark.