A Night For The Working Class

By Anshuman Das

Darkness lingers, dancing its way around

The silver lights; hiding surreptitiously 

The night smells of saturated darkness

As the pastel moon smiles down upon 

lovers and criminals; lovers of their crime

Blue trees surround you, your ears filled with the sound of blue guitars

You got the blues, as the darkness descends

The river churns with ill intention, 

The leaves sing tritones 

The stars are already dead, my dear, the stars are dead. 

The stars are dead, the night not so much, somebody became a victim and somebody a fugitive, victim of their own right

You got the blues, as the times change

The night is consumed by cold, the colour of gallium, the gleaming and bothersome cold.

So you cling onto your warm blanket, a lullaby for the working class. 

You cling onto your hopes and your dreams

All trapped in your pillow, for now.

You got the blues, as the blanket gradually cools

The opium remains prevalent, statues and interpretations remain the dealers 

The dealers of an opium, so potent and so violent, so easy to acquire and consume. 

An opium for the working class, an opium for the others too. 

As the wren cries uglily, you smile within your warm blanket, you recall a dream of a lover as you mixed the alcohol and drank it. 

Lullaby for the working class in your ears, 

The darkness hiding away miserably,

The cold, misunderstood, wants to hug you

The pastel moon and the blue flowers that bloom, the opium, colour of sin, the opium that you drowned in. 

You got the blues. 

By Anshuman Das