Our small home, its tidy roof,
surrounded by wild growth of shrubs.
Our small winding lanes
leading us into dank and slippery confines.
Our small white clouds in the bright blue sky.
Underneath mutilated rotten bodies lie.
Our wide eyes stare at them as their
dead sight mocks at life passing by.
Bewilderment meets the obvious future.
Innocence loses itself amidst putrid lure.
Our small songs never leave our mind,
and in their tunes we forgetfully grind
our small sighs — they lash like a curse.
And hence we pen down this painful verse.
Our small hearts, they forget to cry.
Our tears, our smiles, ourselves — all dry!
© Ritwik Banerjee
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
poetry art literature