SUBHAS CHANDRA SAHA
The pale burning surface of the sky
girdles the bright marble moon.
Death of a day at the birth
of twilight. Many hours
in the bristling sun, chequered
With scattered shades, have rolled
before I unveil
Horizon’s freckled face.
The twilight, even, is killed
by the dark’s dagger, sable and terrible.
The sinister murder marches up militantly.
Puerile agitation at the wipe-off
of the sunk-sun-smooth signature
of a calm moon-glossed moment.
My watch never trips.
The sky-light never chooses to sit.
The change is pervasive,
permanently prevailing,
over my ingredients.