By Soumi Bhowmick
The rose bed’s been prepared;
I don’t like red anymore.
They are calling me loud and clear;
I don’t like voices anymore.
The raindrops have hit the glass,
The summer’s gone, I see;
Carcasses of leaves and twigs
Ablaze at the distant moonlit shore.
Halos and wings of silver
Etherized upon the blue melee,
Albeit they can’t hear...
They notice one akin to gore.
I am sure they do...
Or why else, thrash against itself?
The sand of gold,
The waves of sapphire,
Writing down an incessant lore.
Oh, but the cold’s gotta go too—
And he gotta come back;
Well...
I don’t like the vernal anymore.