A Season Of Harvest

By Kakoli Ghosh

It's the season of harvest in paradise:

an unidentified light

is lying dead on the sky way,

a bit out of sight.

His arms, as if shadows of tender boughs

disappear softly inside his long shroud,

a white bag full of ripe clouds

and stars of harvest,

lie scattered around him in dismay.

The wise owl of the thoughtful night

justifies the killing of light

with planned devastations,

frames its doubtful rays

in some suicidal infernal outrage.

The light had not been seen

for the last few days,

maybe due to a sudden depression

along the heaven's fence.

It went as a labourer of mellowness

picking and plucking future,

filling its white bag

of innocent hunger;

the watchful gods shot him dead.

The sun having been locked up

in the shabby camp of bare divinity,

more migrant lights wait

for refugee or asylum identity.

Growing tired of delay

the caravan of uncertified todays

approach day by day

towards the border of Utopia.

New rules bury killed wingless birds

in far away graveyards,

the last rites are denied there.

Unidentified robes of hunger

clothes more disaster.

By Kakoli Ghosh