On a belief we don’t believe

On a belief we don’t believe

Is this how you dream; with a horse waiting;

its nose flaring? All around, white softness

of Escallonia are really

the letters full of childhood’s misspelled words.

Last winter a moth had eaten away

your purple scurf ; the recession had the job.

You drew breath and flakes of white gushed inside.

With pale fists hidden inside the pockets

you walked to yet another golden liquid

and left drunk on a leafless street dying.

Is this how you still live near death in dreams;

lost under a belief which you don't, in truth,

believe? You live. I live. Then moments die.

=© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)

It never ends (ConcertII)

Concert begins; I see those feet aren’t

touching the ground; you of course are

more critical, measuring the notes.

It will not be proper now to draw

one’s attention to a grasshopper.

Is the music being played by it?

It lives on the same ground my feet

are not touching, now that music has

begun and a tiny grasshopper

can be the hidden conductor.

Later we return to home. Sleep drinks dreams.

We join works. A lonely field listens

to a trivial green grasshopper.

The torn tickets fly like its hushed notes.

=© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)