Chittaranjan Dash, Delhi, 6 October 2024
Words have lost their meanings.
No more the postman knocks on my door.
They killed the telegram one fine sunny morning,
right in the middle of the town.
The pigeons and doves were there too.
They had cried their heart out
and have not come back since then.
Last autumn that war weary soldier
visited his dreary eyed wife.
The whole time his mouth was shut
like a shadow resting in the tomb.
While she brewed hot coffee for him,
cold vibes of war brewed inside his silent gutter.
His children now stutter at school.
My neighbours have burnt their dictionaries.
And their tongues now wall the town museum.
Though I still have my tongue with me –
an obsolete appendage hanging out
of my rusting wardrobe.
And now I write poetry with
the blood of my heart.
