By-Riddhima Sadhu


Thirty three years Alexander lived

Shakespeare wrote his tragedies

That teacher near our house

in dhoti turned twice

still dirty with yesterday’s mud

goes for another regret

what am I doing?

The play was staged

clowns and faces with paint

their age twenty

The man next door

his face well known

for the cycle he drew across the world

where am I here?

The lunatic

in house arrest wants to breathe

showing the foolish thumb

to people on lanes

but what am I doing?

What am I doing? Doing what? Doing what?

Till half past three into the night

the question haunts my ribs

An inadequate path, oozing with men flood

but all headless clouds

Am I one in them?

All my life I have been placing this head

The worn out head of mine

In one body in another

Trying to look into the mirror

On which body does this head of mine

look like me



This poem has been published in the book 'The Last Flower Of Spring'. Buy the paperback copy on Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/y9sydnxn

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