Wish to write the fire in you, to paint the city new,

Wish to write that
Fire in you,
That burnt page which plants
In me
a furnace,
Glowing warm,
Burnt
Purged
Gold like
Cathartic,

Wish to write
That chimney
In you
Like a myth,
Knowing
Once written
It will be consumed
By our destiny...

Wish to write
That city
Of nineteen eighty,
When rickshaws ran
Causing sweet sounds of bells,
Where two people sat
Closeted yet keeping their love
Seperate,

And pages both they
Burnt in holy waters of the river,

Wish to write
Something ancient,
Even before that,
When Ginsberg*
Came to meet
Jessore,
A sunlit shore,
Straightened, broad,
Away from this stagnation
Of never reaching stations,

Away...

Away from the religious non devotional songs
That blare like pole dance numbers...
So so meaningless,
So so decadent,

Wish to write
The whole space new,
Painted by burnt gold,
Of a page...
Seeped
With life,
The Best.

( Note: the picture attached is from a book of poems, in bengali-my mother tongue, redone by me, photographically, as the scribble originates from there but takes its own flow soon after;

*Allen Ginsberg, the famous americanpoet.Ginsberg came to the city of joy, kolkata, and stayed at a place on Jessore Road, for quite a few months.Under his guidance, a new set of poets emerged, in the city.

He even wrote a poem on the place, the city, Kolkata.

Me wrote on that poem by Ginsberg, earlier, only reattaching a page from his book, as a suitable testimony.)


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