Monday, November 21, 2011

Rabindra Bora

Scratch Mark of the Nail of these Words

On the bosoms of the tear-filled words
Which sprout from the silt
Thunder
A gust of cyclone
A forceful, inundated river.

Warmed by the sun’s enormous heat
These wisened words are
Like a pack of wolf
What fast, focused speed!

Somewhere or other
Some people
Clutching the sorrows of
The fertile, empty land
Search for these words.

In the light of the burning fire
Fleeing from the punishment of torture
Within the limits of our bodies
Still glitter
Scratch mark of the nail of these words.

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