Shujaat Hussain
1.The dream churns crestfallen
voids in its belly—
as an unclad rat’s snore
caught in a red oven.
Of your clandestine letters,
I’ve built a hut—a temple
where I breathe
like an imbrued monk, hopeless,
worshipping his god.
What night has befallen him?
Every morn when the sun
rises, reclines against the silver
firmament
it mourns our orphan love
as a mad dog wailing over
his dead mother.
2.
as the day ends
you sit / at the maze
of dusk / the sky closes its doors
wraps metaphors / of grief
around me blows time
in dense ribs
burning / all burning
like our dreams / locked in
coffin stitched up / from black
clays smelling of rust
rotten leaves
where we talk about / poetry
about lovers / who absorb
sorrows / from earth
to save the world from carnage.
3.
Rumor
broke on us. Our land
became a torn pillow
under a light-yellow skull. History
is stitched with countless hours
of ambush and smoke
and terrible fear: is this ( again )
our last chance to talk ? Who knows
how old is grief ?
*
పెద్దన్న
Sunil Bhandari
సాబిర్
హరివెంకట రమణ
శ్రీ సుధా మోదుగు
లిఖిత్ కుమార్ గోదా
మహేష్ వేల్పుల
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