The snow in my lawn isn’t white.
It is rusty like the color of my flowerpot.
“Papa, can I go out and make a snowman?” howls
my son. I say no, and then say it in
CAPITAL letters so he can understand.
We have been raided twice this week,
and feeble infant minds still
cannot tell winter-magic
from martial law.
I was a kid once. Back in those days,
the lakes used to be placid, and filled
with boats ornate and vivid.
Now, the wind howls a million mother’s cries
as new wombs are laced with sulfur
and hatred. I have seen brains splattered
on the streets, and I have seen a city
bleed to death on that very
Bayonets shine brilliantly when the mountain sun
shines bright. It is but a foolish star branded
a messiah, a savior from numbness.
But our souls are frozen. There’s no
warmth that can bring back
those who one day went to play
and never returned.
Like cave rats, I’ve dug a hole
for myself and disappeared
from naked eyes.
My son is foolish. He
paints valleys in green and love
in red. I know the real color.
The color of burning bullets,
The color of dried up blood,
The color of welled up sadness,
The color of mass graves,
Suvojit Banerjee is from India and the United States. His works have been published in many Indian and International journals and magazines and featured in several anthologies. He currently works in a software company and has worked as a lead writer/reviewer for a technology website. He observes, sometimes giving up consciousness in return. It is a dangerous thing, this silent stalking of nostalgia, but he has a maddening urge. He follows the trail, from decaying jetties to swanky corporate buildings, picking up little breadcrumbs of memories and then giving them their due place in white and yellowed out papers. He continues to juggle between poetry and prose, not deciding on where his heart lies. May be it lies in both of them, may be in none.