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•   A BIANNUAL LITERARY MAGAZINE BROUGHT TO YOU BY DESI WRITERS' LOUNGE   •

Volume 11


Prequel - January 2013


Verse

Twish Mukherjee

Written by
Twish Mukherjee

Twish Mukherjee is a young filmmaker based in Delhi who is currently making his first feature length film titled Nothing Unusual. He is also the sub-editor and designer for The Little Messenger, a children's fortnightly in Kolkata. He writes and paints when he has no money to make films.

        
      
       
            
              

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Perception of the Precious Space Within


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For a long, long time, there had been no sound, no melody, not even a wayward tune
that might have muted the cacophony of thunderous wails inside white-washed walls;
echoing inside the balloons that struggle with dust and soot for a whiff of pure perfume,
as pure as toxic intoxicants that spring to action when touched by wizards who
once were, archangels to the weak, cloaked warriors guarding a precious poison
in a castle in the middle of a lush green meadow that will remain out of reach
forever for the self-induced sanctimony of a surreal love.
The witch left the books and appeared in person in the prison,
and numb went all the five senses for all the five seasons, until forever.
Terror that might have spurred the valiant forth in battles,
hid behind curtains to watch in anguish their favorite prey,
making love to bright white light for nights on end.
Contempt contested with a tragedy condemned to the platter of skeptics
who would march inside the tunnels with their tungsten lamps until
they reached the haven above the hill, caged in a house made of glass
and yet glowing all the defiance that the vulnerable can muster.
All that had been blessed with divinity forego their virginity with violence,
wake up violet lipped from the dungeons of a dreaded reality
to a cloudy, windy day that pays pleasure in exchange of peace;
the skeptics recede into the shadows and postpone their debates to a tomorrow
that passes them long before they remember to keep promises made to ancestors
who sacrificed their progeny before the altar under the trance of synthetic truths
about magic and its color, about men and matter, about things thereafter;
all that goes in vain when the hot blood rises to do honor to its existence.
The music returns nevertheless and the fragrance lingers on for long too.
Warriors drug their souls with ideals, rust their swords with darker shades of red,
with hands more able, the wings are torn; biological parents and lovers, frowned upon;
objects subjected to tubes that condense their delight to a graphical splendor.
Mathematical prophecies engraved on the three-faced dice of time
lay in vicious anticipation of the broker’s observation. Begin.

 

 

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