Dead Flowers: Prologue.

Amar dewal’e dewal’e lekha sabdhanbaani
Aajke jodi juddho hoi,
Tomar haath dhore per hobo landmine’er bera.

Over years, we have shared rooms
Some secrets, and a typewriter.

Writing poems about young love,
Click of keys on dull afternoons
Lick of my fingers across your neck

Every night. Poems on paper.
Poems on flesh.
Poems everywhere, till we can’t breathe without sneezing in rhymes.

At the end of our affair, you threw the typewriter
Across the room
Where it fractures my skull, black ink mixes with my blood,

What a fucking mess we make.

Bhul kore dhuke porte chai aaj bikele,
Je para’te eksathe thake bidroher haathchaani,
ar tomar dewal jora bougainville.

There are men who wait outside
On the street.

Wait to build a house
Wait to create a house out of nothing,
But dead remains of the Earth.

They squat the roads, early morning
And their groins stink of madhouses.
I scratch dead skin in flakes
And watch as the house,
Waits to be built

Waits to be created,
Out of nothing, but hate.

image

Artwork by Caroline Westerhout.

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