The fire of Muspelheim rages
In the dark alleys where for ages
Ancient arts of beauty have been stockpiled
By the masters of money and mind.
Alchemists of the new generation
Stack artefacts beside puddles, potholes,
Never-ending streets without emotion,
Where one once could see blossoms of roses.
Newborns' noses sniff
Out a confused whiff
And burned flesh -
Unfamiliar for their senses,
But not for occupants of countless committees.
Poof, goes the bricks,
And the cement,
And iron wicks,
And the souls.
Flames of Tartarus leap out of its realm
And enter the curtained bedrooms upstairs,
Climbing the dancing fumes that overwhelm
The forgetful nation that loves to mourn
(And drool for drama)
But never to act.
The Lady scrubs her wrists.
Scrubs as the dead rises
And Rises again
To make space for more.
Eau de Mort, made in Chawk Bazar.
Towhidul Islam Khan is Senior Lecturer, DEH, ULAB.