a poem I dream of a poem again - of words that would drown me in the world of conscious and the subconscious that poem, which I have lost… through the layers of yesterday’s sorrows, a darkness engulfs me, tortures me, lashes me, mocks me, and then it shows me a light I crave for the poem that can liberate me it always have done; yet now while I sit to write, the poem denies its existence… in my dream the poem takes shapes of clouds and float by of water and flows away of dewdrops and silently wait of tiny flowers, of roads, of days, of nights, of birds, of fish, of snails… and then it becomes me, shackled in chains of ashes from the bones of my dear ones is death so powerful that it could kill my voice? Anindita Bose
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ReplyDeletelooking forward...the sensitivity regarding "expression through written words" touched my heart...:)
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