INDIA

sinha1612@hotmail.com

Dead near ones

Far is just a memory
Of a dead near one,
Who left property,
Disputed by daughters,
Clad in shame
And cursing their mothers,
Whose wombs are furnaces
Where steel is being moulded
Into men of particular hues and shapes,
That dance perfectly and around, in circles
With displacement towards Nietzschian perfection,
In the minds of daughters and wives,
Of dead near ones, safe in the sanity
Of their dying out in the midst
Of life, bubbly and spirited,
And gushing forth from breasts,
Filled with milk of kindness
That feel for steel,
In a way that dead near ones
Do not understand as they are
Unhealthy and drunk
On borrowed whisky
And roaming around in their kitchens,
With knives to cut the vegetable into pieces
That no one would want to eat
Or even taste with their tongues,
That never waiver or hesitate
But talk in a pure sense
Politics, War, Hunger, Peace,
That eludes so many
Dead near ones.

© All Copyright, 2000. Suman Sinha.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.