Early Morning Photograph

you're so beautiful that love seems to be the running force of life
you fighting for the world
it's like Turgenev's mom-sparrow fighting for her baby
like light rising from darkness
like blind soldiers seeing the source of light
unlike mooby hairy bald pervs quoting Russian literature for you and thinking of you as Margarita
unlike moobier hairier perver pervs selling faith for votes
Adonis goes hunting with Angulimala
many houses burn within a radius of 100 kilometers
burn, Radha
my love is so selfish that it romanticises fire and hates real flames
i'd rather look at photographs of you fighting for the world to come together and sing,
think that things are all in place in the universe
despite knowing that the construct of balance is elusive
and knowing that some people will forever walk the world
and see how the coldest, softest moment of the night turns blue in the sky in a few whiles
and see how mom-sparrows go out to fight for their babies
and see how the warmest, softest moment of the day turns blue in the sky in a few whiles
and see how mom-sparrows come back to fight for their babies
the house where i had stayed from birth till high-school ended had an occasional readhead Krishnachura swaying a headful of flowers in the green rain beside the window that opened to the South and an occasional orange-head Radhachura swaying a headful of flowers by the one that opened to the North



by the time i came to know that all trees are hermaphrodites they weren't there
but poetry with endless blue skies rolling overhead and words filling a few blank spaces up  and all blank spaces wrapping words up - have always been there and so have memories of a couple of Bangla poets who would look at the skies and at the streets and feel hermaphrodite
the streets took one of them
life took the other
and poetry took both
it's like that, something taking in the binaries and the void - love is

and then, the roads are always thirsty and none of them lead to anywhere specific,
except for people who believe in battles, and for fools and philosophers
and for the moon behind the mirror
and for all lamps that flicker
and for the uneasy relationship between storms and nests
and for the easy relationship between the sea and the seagulls
and for the relationship between fishes and the water where ease and diseases flow by, like life, like Eliot's women for Prufrock and Yeats' horsemen passing by
unlike mooby hairy bald pervs quoting English literature to feel good about loving you,
the transparent cold of death wraps eyes of fishes
i have seen them staring at blank spaces from the other side of highly polluted slabs of ice

and in Lorca's city there's everybody asleep
and Pagla Meher Ali screams: 'Beware!'
and flames of devotion burns the sages
and hot streets burn musafirs
in the city the times are harsh. they sing songs of Lalan with greed for fame
and five odd timid stars sing and dance their carnival of sadness out in the five star sky of a dead poet's novel, their sadness melts in cheap cosmetics of sweaty, beautiful women from the streets, along their sweaty necks down their flabby flaneur-fleshes - i call them Shujata and think of them as mercy
April is mostly a cruel month in any case
Even sparrows don't talk much and crickets don't sing much in April cities.

But i'd rather think of the void and be happy
I'd rather look at a photograph of you fighting for the songs and for the baby-songs and think that there is something called balance and that the universe is in perfect balance now
and be happy
you're so beautiful that love seems to be mom-sparrows and baby-sparrows singing songs and baby songs of life

And so on

Sincerely,
(Or like Mr. Wren or Mr. Martin had once written in their book of grammar:
Yours, etc)