by Santosh Kalwar
Low in the mood field thinking,
always on this lonesome wheel-chair,
knowing that she will never feel the scent
of that rose, from the backyard of hergarden, never stretch arms wide open
and kiss to the heavenly sky/nightly stars
or dare to poke jokes, oh girl of blue eyesand sad legs, oh dear girl of silent ears andloose necks, of saddened face
I don't know if you are listening,
I don't know if you are thinking,Only when I feel the weight
of your body, is when I take you tothe bathroom; trying hard heightened
They say, "Who am I?"
Can a written connection of soul to soul
will ever be justified? Will it ever be verified?Who am I to be with you
in this tragic moment? They often ask.
And, I say: