Wednesday, January 30, 2013


-         Saptarshi Basu

They are dead now,
Nothing much to talk about them…
Even if the dust of protest soars high
They are not coming back.

The fault was not theirs, they say
It was in their stars…
On moonless nights, their loved ones
Still searches them in the sky.

The fault was not theirs, they say
The fault was in their caste
And the criminal love repeats the history,
Of everything and nothingness.

No wind, no waving motion
Just the white hot-rays of moist sunlight,
Crisscrossing their homes
A light mist rose from the tip of sunflower field.

Just then all remember,
Two unbridled souls,
Refusing to knuckle under worldly conventions,
They ploughed the clouds and scattered rains of love in the field.