-the voice of a 55year old, the indignation of 25.
And three days back when the Sea came to my doorstep was it difficult for me to stand three feet away or was it impossible to retreat any further?
Sanity killed many. But I had been hibernating. Nothing changed for me.
He made me love Keats to fill up for him and coughed up his blood instead. But is this ‘beautifully red’? He named his story “Shudhu Kobitar Jonno” but chose immortality instead. Is this where my eyes had led?
Silence killed many. But I did not have a death pass. Nor the will to die.
We could not flout the years between. We cannot bridge the crack of twice my age and ten more years. We cannot contravene the orthodoxies of our time. We cannot call it “love”, it is too uncertain of what it is. We called it “intoxicant” and then bottled it up and named the bottle “repository”, “home” had been pawned out to preserve this document of distance.
And the gnomes burrowing into our conscience have been silenced forever. The garden is beautiful each day where blossoms appear and appearances blossom and the chthonic emotion dries beneath its weight.
petal by petal
we deflowered a voice
and in eternal silence
they keep floating on the Sea..