By Tania Biswas
They said,
The world consists of one third of land and water-
But the world has been departed in two places,
One sweats in bitter cold,
Screaming in despair, struggling day and night-
Wandering scared-is there any hope?
To rescue a soul of lingering affair!
Sparkling smile, sclera of fake lamenting eyes,
Laughing behind the mask of lies,
Ray illusion of Marxist prime
Free play with the proletariats' minds
On the other side of the ply-a slight range of endeavour,
Eyes plead to raise, for a soul to spare,
Not that fierce to save the soul of others-
Where they trip down, hold their own desire and fear,
Where fear and agony live in the spirit of rage, or in fear or stress.
They scream to live for a life to outlive,
An aide ain’t no more clear,
The messy, grimy, foul hanging in the air,
Smells not so stinky as the smell of laundering money-
Bearable enough-till it reincarnates one’s soul.
One side of the Sanatorium cursing, the other uplifting in joy,
The newborn baby may be shouting in grief,
Might be born to live, hailing hopes and grief,
The celebration of the unknown, a mix of weep and laughter coming from far away…
Tend me to think,
What will be day after tomorrow?
When they are not trying,
Competing to live their utopian expectations-
If they leave the landowner-
Floating them in the mid-ocean, choose to fly-
To chase their dreams-own fights,
If they escape into a closet,
Crafting a jewel, garnishing a sparrow,
If they stay beyond the definition of ‘he’ or ‘she’,
Claiming a rainbow, hidden in harrow,
Can they celebrate the one?
How they lift them up a score ago-
Let's not think it.
Let's deal with the universal.
Whatever the personal is universal-
We are all in the stages of foul play,
Advent in the slow process of death-
Some are hiding, some are shouting,
Some are playing different roles-go as you like.
The day of judgment, does it come?
Today-tomorrow or overmorrow?
The crowd of bustling fear emptied slowly-
Left behind the eternal absence,
To a shroud-
I stare at the ceiling fans,
It still roams with the heavy burden
Of constant fear, postponing the chaos at the unfocused benches-
But where do they go?
To a destined place, between comfort or discomfort-
Some go back knowing the answer,
What could happen tomorrow?
No one goes back, knowing the answer
What will happen tomorrow-
Still, they come,
To find another reason to come back-
Though today has no answer…
If another hope begins tomorrow,
Dying at the edge of the cliff-
Surveillance between known or unknown-
They try and try, try to live,
Try only to survive.
It feels deeply personal—each day I wake up with the hope of a better tomorrow, caught in a cycle of questioning my present yet hesitating to change it. And still, it’s that very hope that keeps me moving forward—the quiet belief that one day, I’ll truly achieve the dreams I hold close.