The Sky Transmutes

By Susmita Chatterjee Alias Aloakash

He would walk

Till he reached the blue lake

The sky had decided to give up his reflection

To the blue lake

And transmute himself

That is how he sought to retaliate against pollution

His legs too heavy and toe bleeding

Acid rain

His fine garments all tattered and torne

Patched with factory smoke and dense fog

His colour no more blue, but grey

He hated the smog so much

Puss oozing from his wounds

The odour repugnant

The sky wanted to feel his body again

The sky wanted to breathe fresh in the drape of stars

The sky wanted to play flute with the songs of the sun and the moon

But tired, too tired he was

“Sky is an illusion”, they say

The sky sat under an oak tree beside the blue lake

Two canaries were making their bed

They came out of their nest

Hey Sky!

They said together

He looked up at them, his darling selves

And remembered the freedom of flight

That he enjoyed in their wings

The canaries kissed him, with his favourite song

His body melting and mating

The blue lake transmuted to a golden antelope

The canaries sat on his horns

And they disappeared in the trunk of the oak tree.

The leftover of the sky is a dead jacket.

By Susmita Chatterjee Alias Aloakash