The skeleton of the Mandar tree
Is pouring the last traces of its blood
In its blooming flowers
Even in such a dry, indifferent and wretched March.
In my soul, the big boils of pox
Are bursting out shearing my skin–
I have forgotten the names of pain.
A long procession is marching towards me
The numbness that follows every commotion
Is very known to me now.
I know the names of death–
‘Love Jihad’, lynching, ‘Corona Jihad’ or
Simply a death sentence for my name.
Every night, death hugs me
Before I wake up drenched in sweat.
My grandfather didn’t leave his land
He wanted to breathe freely
But now the big Jamun tree
In our courtyard
Has become a ghost of death at night.
I feel suffocated
His land is gone
And my land is only a spectre
Of violent memories.
Moumita Alam is a poet from West Bengal. The most important element of her poetry is her voice of dissent. She questions all existential norms of patriarchy and oppression with her words. At the same time a heart full of love resides In her works. Her book The Musings of the Dark is now available on Amazon.
Featured image credit: Pariplab Chakraborty