by Sutputra Radheye
poets are sleeping
with flowers in gardens across brothels
when the rest of the city-
crumbles like pieces of bread
falling in the fire of communalism.
Their beds are warm like their flesh
as the scandalous lips wear their skin
dragging their words to the climax junction
of neon sigh-sparkling impotency.
I despise the poetry of aesthetics
With collars of authority tied its neck.
I am free like the verses of Neruda
the words of Nabarun
the melody of Hemanga.
Execute my poetry. Read it not.
I penetrated the blood of my comrades
To conceive these poems.
Fire of the burning harvest flows in its cell.
Dynamite of the mines- its body.
Touch it, and your post-mortem report-
history will print to burn.
I am a madman.
With chalk in my hand
I will paint all streets in protest
For killing the crows.
The advertisements of ministry
Stitched on the torn backs of poor
I will tear as my hands were of Narsimha.
My revolution is my word.
Each student, each beating heart
Once taught to love will continue.
Kill me. I have a weak body.
With each drop of my falling blood
A new revolution will grow
In the urban concretes
And rural roads.