We are the shadows of our fathers,
tough moons spading through the
two eyed murk of the night;
such are the times of divine invasion,
of passion and love, tucked under the orb.
To die is to be liberated of death,
You keep in splinters,
You keep like cold;
Like river jaspers garbed in clod,
you fold in the mirror: a rotting corpse.
Where are the symphonies they once pledged?
We rave to moulder,
our figures plastered by the streets,
clenched fists and shoulders held in the air
like snow, our guns and barrels
smoulder along with our bodies.
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on,
we chafe and bleed and clot and steer;
we go mad and nude,
marching on the beastly cobbles
torching the last of our voices–
Somebody has got to flog the wolves!
Somebody has to give.

Snata Basu is an aspirant poet from Dhaka, Bangladesh. Her work mostly centres on passionate, personal bindings. She is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature at North South University.