At such an age, Aaftaab
has descended from its throne;
Its light decrees not winter’s smoke,
just the crackle of brittle old bones.
Her erred touch—the cavernous
entrails of a cold ciselé glove;
She glances like the twinkle
of promissory gemstones.
Your kohl traces a whiplashed delta
of thirsts and chiaroscuro salts—
Sunderbans, a twilight of honeycombs,
tigers, cockscombs, and anemones.
You inhale my breath, while
your ribs tally your countless pains;
You mould me after your minions
pulverize me with ancient stones.
The nectar of virgin grapes
is for the cleric’s teetotal tongue;
Not for me whose lips
are soured from vinegared groans.
Let’s keep a bond, my dearest
that no kaazi may tarnish;
Like ties of hostile truces
or reluctantly unpaid loans.
If ravenous frenzy were heresy,
he would confess to it at once;
Qasim was born to commit
what no religion condones.
Arup K. Chatterjee 