কনা-করিশু লৈজদ্রবী

লৈরাংবগি গারী চৎখ্রে মশা লূম্না
ওল্লদুনা নুং থাবা লম্বীদা চকা
লান্দুনা লম্বী চিদাইগি মোংশোঙসে৷

লৈরাংনা নীক-নীক, নোম-নোম
লম্বীগি অকূৎ-অতোঙ তান্থাদা৷

কনা-করিশু লৈজদ্রবীদো
ঙাইজবনি নুংতিগি খূঞ্জগে হায়না লৈরাং
য়েংদুনা লৈজহৌবনি চৎখিবদো গারিনা
লম্বীগি অকূৎ-অতোঙ তান্থাদা৷

Running away from Time

Those fingers—those—
The fingers of time—
They press me out of life.

The light from the stars—from ancient miles—
And the present glitter in my eyes—
They meet in a kiss—
Sucking the breath out of me—life.

I run away from time
From bodies of time creeping around,
and here in the dark
I struggle to plug every hole
with time-tight tissues
I have torn away from my heart
to keep myself warm
and untouched by decay
until I stop my breath.

If I Never Met You

I simply lost my heart to this song–“If I never met you” in the end credits of Manhattan Night (Brian DeCubellis, 2016). Lyrics and music by Brian DeCubellis, performed by Catey Shaw, and produced by Jay Levine. I’ve not liked Catey Shaw before.

Contents of the Night

Did a whiff just drift past the rock?
A faint life drenched in the grainy past ghosting around?
A swell of faded memory rolling over under the dark?
A forgotten smell reminding of ancient familiarity?

The footsteps clatter fainter down the lazy steps
winding down the rocky hill in the moon
with the rustle of a hand rubbing
against the rough walls hewn off the hill,
so clear like the night contains nothing else.

Sometimes at nights
slow whiffs would wax and wane,
and the rock in the hilltop wind
would soften to the contents of the night.

 

Gathering the Remains of Dusts

In a slow response to the pull of silence
the dusts of sound have settled down
to the abandoned life spread across the floor–
preserved in layers the creases of pains
painted in fragile smiles for the show,
spirals of despair deyed spry for the show.

Slowly the dusts of life have settled
on the photographs of dead people
and people memory has let go of,
those blurry visitors in grainy dreams
you have once or twice in a lifetime
gathered from a long forgotten past,
part of the mistakes you made in learning life.

But a bearded storm keeps coming with a broom
dragging along his cart of dusts and photographs
when the sun is low to the snow free of all dust.
After or before the dark? You never know.

Squashed

A room dark with full of forgets;
forgotten memories flirtatiously
weave with reluctant memories
eloquent geological patterns
of nuanced shades of darkness–
each line, curve and muffled shine
heaving slowly in quiet breath.

Unsure whether or not to
listen to soundless voices from the past
knocking repeatedly at the door,
watch the future slipping in
through the chinks under the doors,
a formless body rolls in the bed,
spilling memories into the folds of the clothes,
getting smeared with unwashed memories off the clothes,
and the caged mind rattling all
the fragile memories in the dark.

Who would have thought
memories leave footprints so heavy
and it’s not just matter that weighs?

Too much life crammed into one.