Neellohit...(a tribute to Sunil Gangopadhyay,)

What will Nira do today?
Will she cry herself hoarse?
Will she thump her breast
For her Sunil is no more?
What will she do?

Who would tell her
In lucid verse
The hand that once touched her
Would never commit a sin...

Who would say that to her?
Who would?
Her Sunil...
The hippie...
The punk...
The erratic youth
Who never grew old...
Died so young
At heart...

That one of the three
Drunkards...
Wandering souls...
At night of seventies
When the city bled
Only red...
On tramlines...
The trio would uncork poems
So full of life
And also of bullets
And three naught three fire...
O!
That undying Neellohit!
That sprite!

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