Prison of Enchanter


Did I ask you, flight?
Passing mirror, moist light
Pieces of words fallen
And the dark manifesting
Generation of green
Amidst my windows woven
All are to write on water
Shower of wound, milky feather
Where has slept, the man
Dissolved in the yellow
And the river to follow
Where he walked into
From the womb to melting blue
All away from, the golden statue
Seeds thus from the orange
Fragrant the life, watering change
Wave at the ship, swallowed green
Emerge from water like
Grave of mountain, fathomed
Whispered the cicadas
Song is sharper than
And knight is keen.

Comments

Rajtilak Bhattacharjee said…
Were these words meant for someone? Everytime I read your words (lets not say they are poems), I get the feeling that I am standing all alone in the vastness of a green field with black clouds hanging over my head. And when I look up at them, to them, they kiss me with a breeze of cold wind.
January 10, 2010 at 8:42 AM
Sandip said…
Yes. They are not poems. So they are. Prison or window... they are same. Autumn or spring...they are magnificently different.
January 11, 2010 at 8:28 AM
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