Colliding with a whirlpool, unceasing tunnels store loads of sensation
Terrifying clamours of bats here carry full of fond laughter
For whom and for what so selfish is the time
The future to amass a garden in the darkness; not possible
A bunch of early flowers hang in the boroughs of the horizon.
You could see clearly; how skillfully I moved my shiny and dazzling body
How I learnt flying in my mother’s womb spreading the wing, balancing in the air
Censoring the forthcoming attacks and so forth
Like Abhimanyu in the Mahabharata who learnt the combating dexterity
Right from his mother’s womb myths and misfortune lay as baits.
Still the boatman dares the stormy sea.
Flew miles upward, an adventurous venture the whole voyage
Jam-packed with fronds of new elation how the two excluded stars in the sky
In a corner exchange their sorrowful detachment
Half dry anxieties and the pale zeitgeists silently rattle.
A team of deer or a company of fish dares all fears in the way
Huddles of treachery sometimes enticing extravaganza
Let you feel the warmth of a wintry blanket or a bulging body
And the new love like carol songs
A short presence of someone’s sweet presence
Message of a far off furtive wind
Get aggressive to clash with your ever willing grey titillating lips.
Jars of satisfying hours at the end like never ending schedules
The valour of a weak heart surfs on a tidy imagination
In a chilled night only you and I forgetting the venomous juicy serum of
A new pose, some more pegs at every interval
Why not be ready to gallop all the pain of the coveted journey ahead.
Your body covers mine as a soothing classical love poem of Pablo or Emily
Every layer carries a thrill of desperation; I still never bother the light the rising sun.
What a lively journey! How fulfilling it is!! The promise made never shatters
The dead veins and pulses of the antiquity come back to life
All of a sudden our boat hits the shore, glittering new hopes wink happily
We end the journey tying ourselves like a bunch of creeping plants.
Indian LIterature | Indian Review Author | Pitambar Naik was born and brought up in Kalahandi district of Odisha. He holds an M A in Journalism and Public Relations. He works as a social worker in Jamshedpur in India. He writes in English.