To Dearth

Suman Saha

Are you back? Do you shore up to the monsoon?


Then, you might hear of the last churning in the chignon

Of some story unknown; some bounces of expectation.

Sometimes, matted floor turns such dreamy instagram

With the sun beams of shadowy sensation.

Monsoon never talks to me.


You may know, the calls of everyday just the trade,

Full of filth; can earn the one, the false faith.

Every moment like the grains of sand dissolves

Into the black-hole of spoof. My question meets death.


You may know, cosmic-vacuum now fills psychics—

As if some vile Vikings assail her all presentment,

Consigning the blur to the time’s elderliness,

To the liquidity of emotion, or to some jejune event.


Is relation a groan?— Monsoon neither reacts to me

Nor answers why the flocks of darkness draw dejection

All the time. Silence scalds the self— airs ever-inexistence

Of literal proof. Let fill the bill then with pulses’ excavation.


The expectation, expiation and their compound

Pour poison into the relativity. Pains ply the pretext—

“Are you back? Do you shore up to the monsoon?”

My question meets death.


Monsoon never talks to me.