A PRIVATE WOUND...

In this setting sun of the spring
Thousands wet eyes under the azure sky
Twenty five thousands already dead

Life is fragile, so is love
Tired souls, time never waits
Moss grows in the bleeding heart

Lock down at home
Silence of graveyard
Deepening fear of virus

At a distance.
Chime of temple bells, prayers
Bidding adieu

Left behind the syllables of life and death
Terror hides in this deceitful spring
Barren roads, voices lost in the wind

Sun will rise again
From the ruin of death
For you leaving behind tuberose burnt

And my heart into pieces...

Asoke Kumar Mitra -India-