Weave
Bubun Chattopadhyay
Down there, inside
Reside a shattered moon,
An unfathomed abyss,
An endless aisle in fields
where there is no home,
Nothing to find but horizon
That stands as mirage alone.
you frequent such a way for walk,
you sink down the desk
In search for the coffined words
And then made them clash
That a fire must be born,
A spark for a moment and gone....
Blown out into dark of despair.
Thus lives the life the poet
weaving the threads of failure.
Translated by Jayita Mukherjee
