By Amit Kumar Das
This walled city,
This city of waste and filth.
This city betrayed by its own voice,
That died after reverberating through its corridors,
wails that crushed the sleep of an October night,
This city of stones that gets stoned every night to stay alive,
This city that gets drunk and vomits mayhem on the streets,
This city of paints and plastics that goes to work
with noise in its head and returns to noise at night.
Its soul still wanders around, in search of its home.
Only a white cloak in January can make it disappear.
Find me a home,
a small corner that doesn’t weep the slow decay of time,
a bed of forest where roots never give up in the face of melting clocks,
a bank where boats don’t flee the shore when the ocean comes raging,
a piece of leaf, a twig, a creeper that can grow in the concrete walls of uncertainty,
even a dark damp pit will do if the stench can put the traveller to sleep.
Amit Kumar Das is a journalist and a freelance video editor. He has published a couple of poems in Indian Review.
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