Three-fourths of the sins
The green handwriting from the sway of my childhood.
I do not forget the meagre meal served by my noble mother.
Yet, I cannot tolerate
The eternal vomit of wisdom
And no question from the dead ring of the solar system.
Yet I cannot tolerate
The sounds of the sobbing and the weeping
When they write the names
Of mass hysteria
And then I wish no salvation for the dead city
And the nitty-gritty is –
We have not touched the river
We have not seen the flight of the birds
Since we met development.
No clock has welcomed the cloak of the fog.
The digital consideration
The shadow of the war.
The closed substance
And a clue to clear the sky.
The digital consideration.
Have reached the top of the corpse the frequent centuries
Without telling where the rooster is
And it is dawn
And you may tell the open secret to open the door
And it may open.
Everything is possible
If one is dead.
Partha Sarker © 2023