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Amarendra Khatua


Reaching Out Into Nothingness

Say it again, the simple words
won't denote meaning to such banal
meaninglessness, as we know,
the precious waiting is a dignified
entity, the backside of your temperamental
visiting card.

Bones have this funny habit, they have to
shed flesh, water down the blood and
have to embrace dust to become dust.
Inevitably our knowledge regarding
despair does never flower into
protected relationship and, it is really funny, that
relationship is like fossilized bone,
once intact, now seemingly meaningless dust
even nostrils failing to acknowledge.

One's own silence pesters wayward motives
to branch out and emote in a
stabilised world of unfamiliar shadows.
Say it again, the familiar human touch
can be so monotonous that one will
prefer to stay back, at least knowing that
shadows are after all shadows, if
once can get hurt by absent images,
then knowledge have not reached yet
regarding what harms these harmless
shadows can bring upon.

Translated by the poet



 








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