Sigh of Sin ? (Part - 1)
in this world of the limped nuptial
i’ve appeared as a power-missile of the lac-dye
that is used by the hindu women
to paint the border of their feet
the tooth-ache of some-one pumpkin
that grows on the thatched roof of a hut
has wringed spirally
my mythological birth with corporate death
managing and arranging my thoughts
on what I was in the past
what I would be in the future
or what is my dos at present
the wonder-paintings of the altamira cave
unfolds its wings beside my painful in-growing nail
and in her own sky of miss marry
my hands become so much condensed in every drops
as if within that moping smog
without any speech
speaks the twinkle twinkle little star…
beside that labour pain what awakes then
is the patronage of a one-horned idea
along which while walking without much preparation
i can enter into any e-mail
though our love pulls a very long-face about itself
and in the opinion of the married women
the sigh of the sin ? of our love wants to cultivate
mustered-seeds on the soil of the inhabitants
of this human-life
with a stick by which the monkeys are driven out
what more can i say in lieu of
a piece of red-salute written in green ink
if i say in the dawn of the 52-cards
i touch your face
by the hands of a school-boy
your calmness and earthly perfume
make me stunned
then in this field of sweat and war
the explosion of logic and intellect
of your top-floor
seems more famous anchor than the milk
that spilt over on the fire
and more to say
when daubing all over the body
all taste of the path of joy
enter into then fort of gold you can notice there
when in some unknown moment
my pajama dies socially
by the bite of the snails and oysters
to keep the heart of the break-kiln always move
this form-less interactions are so well
in the harvest-arrangement of the late-autumn
we are all uttering the name of cherry-flower
and begging shelter from the mango leaves
Copyright © Murari Sinha | Year Posted 2010
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