by Bazi alis Subrata Ray
The desolation of the room,
The standstill Summer's sweat,
The moan of the deprecated memory,
In the fossils of adolescence and youth,
When crowd around your nowhere signal,
And the ghosts of bed-soaked arms,
Stare oblique irony at your unimportance,
You feel the beguiles of mirage with no oasis.
No resource to buy oil,
No pump agrees to supply,
The threshold waits to bid you the goodbye.