Separation: A Soliloquy | The Daily Star
12:00 AM, March 07, 2020 / LAST MODIFIED: 02:30 AM, March 07, 2020

Poetry

Separation: A Soliloquy

Doesn't anyone get that my soul cringes for a call?

Who'll call me to chitchat this and that,

(With whom) I can eagerly share my melancholy?

When we talk, Autumnal mists get straight into my heart!

Kura chirps kub-kub-tullut-tullut in the paddy field..

Air starts gathering mist for upcoming winter,

inviting migratory birds from the furthest end of the globe..

Mildewed paddy field sleeps aslant in the bosom of lukewarm sun...aah!!

A single throw of harpoon catches ancient boal from haor!

Is there anyone, such a loving soul?

 

Then I asked them to send a photo of the railway station,

In this photo a goat with droopy ears

would munch some Nabisco chocolates from her hand

one after another, then languidly lick her palm.

The girl will freeze in fright-

A tiny dark hand - clutching her Nabisco chocolates

ramchagol's droopy-long ears, a bell dangling from her neck,

the ramchagol's liquid soft eyes,

the station's immemorial dusts, crispy dry leaves of Ashar!

-- this photo will look such classic! Its filter would be sepia.

 

Then, then I moved away from all of it

though it didn't happen overnight- it's not such simple, you see.

Still, I'd like to know how much grass might grow on a grave in a waqt?

But hush! No worries! I won't demand for its answer.

(Stealthily, in whisper) I'm asking you about them—my folks!

They had maya – some kind of surreal, unearthly maya

casting maya's spell, releasing black pigeon

in mid- stream of a flowy river

and conjuring necromancy, they harped on maya's beguiling tunes.

 

As I'm looking back today, I sense

the air is mingled with some sort of insanity

that loots all…and this is how I moved away—

On my way befell the lapis lazuli rivers

came empty terrains, I met the zero-hour of time.

Fluffy mist draped on top of it, nomadic clouds floated away,

the ground moved away from under my feet

and with it parted the path itself,

furlong to furlong, further and further away…

but still I wonder, was it me who escaped, or was it Them?

 

Bipasha Haque is a diaspora writer with particular interest in life-the way it is. By profession she is a university teacher.

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