Poems by Moumita Mitra

Before being
shattered to pieces

The body lying on the table
Already had few eyelashes missing
We didn’t pay attention
Careful calculations decided
How much each of us deserved
One took the sides of the neck
Her desire was to seek solace underneath a face
Another went for the palm
She wanted to be caressed the whole night
Recognising the scars on the back
One claimed
Her nails still had the dead flesh from that scratch

We never wanted to see
The sides of the dead lips curved into a smile

The remainder left only the legs
A life’s endless deferral
Has made roots grow from the feet
It couldn’t be understood how much
He had turned into a tree

We ignored our responsibility

The protest of the forests
We have prevented somewhat this way.

In the termite smelling air

One from the last row of dead
Had opened his eyes and gave witness
From then on the sky has turned red
Whenever two shadows holding a golden fruit
Come near, fierce branches scrape all force
The toxic smell outside
And the musty termite worn air of closed chambers
Are forming the limbs of the new world
Filling proper blanks he
Soon would weave a storyline
Stars of the night would slowly melt away
The last window of the angel’s old castle
Would close for ever in silence

At every toll
Time is demanding a dream back

As night ’ll approach

We’ll go to sleep like night
And will return to the old days.
Tears rolled down from the corners of the eye
Will touch you as beads of sweat
There will be only salt,
And old hatred will return.
Old fisherman will look for a reason
To face the sea standing on the wet sand
And the bride’s mother will prepare herself.
In tying a knot while refusing many others,
Our ground will be stolen.
As errors will be declared
Weaving will begin again
Only the window panes will look on;
We’ll fall asleep with a numb dream
And again will return to the old days.