Poetry: Probal Basak

Probal Basak
An Old Dream

An old tired dream
came to the condemned corner
inside my barbed homeland,
crossing over piles of dead nightmares
tinkled ivories, held my hand.

We swapped stories,
stories of his dreamland
and stories of my homeland,
a land that now scares me.
They summon the dead,
to judge their flaws,
they comb my plate
for pieces of broken laws,
they take my pants down
to know how I pray,
they seek to taste my blood
to allow me to stay.

Scared silent dream
let go off my hands, disappeared
without a fight,
and, I rushed back to the camp
to throttle nightmares
one at every night.
***


Horror of Lights

In a not so ordinary day
someone somewhere somehow
trumped up the plan
to wake the kingdom up from
primitive darkness under its hood.

The kingdom woke up to lights,
too much lights around, and
it craved for even more
like the colony of beetles
flying to the smoldering wood.

Our world continued its walk
into the horror of lights until
the addicted eyes lost eyesight,
and, the blind kingdom laid an egg,
unlike the one the firebugs brood.

2 comments :

  1. "they comb my plate
    for pieces of broken laws,
    they take my pants down
    to know how I pray".... this is bold... poem of our time...unlike the rubbish in name of love poems.... keep writing..

    ReplyDelete
  2. "they comb my plate
    for pieces of broken laws,
    they take my pants down
    to know how I pray".... this is bold... poem of our time...unlike the rubbish in name of love poems.... keep writing..

    ReplyDelete

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