Sayani Mukherjee
A dream of flower-ridden blossom,
The wavering chaos of the river runs high.
I escaped the drugged wish
Of melancholic numbness around me.
The slit-throated, sky-high buildings
Of consumer care and globalized madness,
The sip of soma is adjacent—
Life’s little brittle mystery of strange alteration.
A camphor of village-ridden blush,
The boat ride of everyday coming port,
A slush for the modesty of eavesdropping sickness,
Till the city learns the indoors of passion.
The burning ghat still flames high,
As the coming and going to this world is rampant,
As poetic reverie bemused in silence.
