The Sun is in his frayed long loose trousers
it slumbers near kitchen바카라™s rusted tin stove.
Its opaque reading glasses hang around its gnarled neck.
A moth ferries afternoon dreams바카라”
on the stained walls of the slaughter house.
Pearl
My mouth has been raining
bright flashes, a spark and a roar.
I have been to the dentist바카라™s several times
down the lane, to the other side of the painting바카라”
My mouth sings
Of the Sun, wild poppies,
bargaining land, trinkets of dust,
jingling coins, stolen cats...
My mouth cloudbursts
debris, onyx memories,
labour of a fragile mother,
of a baby바카라™s half born mouth embossed in soil.
My mouth flurries
gold, topaz, amethyst rooftops
hunter boots, milkless hard breasts
cupped dew drop mornings and a dozen tiger lilies.
My mouth is a confinement cell
of rosaries바카라”
It repeats
the prosody of belief.
It choruses the language of
lemon grass, basil, mint.
It pours cups
of pearl faith
for the deceased and living.
Ritamvara Bhattacharya is a poet based in Darjeeling
