Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
Stranger, the butterflies of our nightmares lie charred, notoriety writ large
across the wings of their ashen dreams.
Gather spectators now, gather to kick the memory of the ash in sanctioned delight.
Harud is the spoiled daughter of all sad seasons.
Now a lover is separated, now his lament is in the crevices of the rain that drenches the night.
In the silence of the wet night the mirror of time shatters and place too closes in on us.
We seep into the chatter of our mourners.
Now the mourners lie still, is it sleep or has death crept gently to bewitch the night.
Can we cry out loud in the nightingale’s realm: eyes, bags of history
Perhaps we could be cajoled to cry whenever the fleeting salt of familiarity bites
Now the expanse of the blue sky is not large enough for the horses of our despair as our broken
fingers listen to the gurgle of our blood.
Will be we scared now of the forest that sprouted from our stolen words and sleeps in our dreams?
West of autumn in the field of ripe wheat we swear not to forsake our broken shadows
that rained upon the land.
We boarded the lorries that shook with acrid blood, and settled as the foam of the night.