The Curse of the Dead Leaves


‘Twill be 15th April tomorrow.
We’ll light a candle on our front porch
or at the India Gate.
The hounds will smack us
and draw our blood.
The squirrels will still say
you brought it on yourself –
By choosing a wrong set of parents,
by being kind to that pony
and lurking alone and
by having a hole between your legs.
Facebook and twitter will
burn for two weeks –
burnt by people who
died with you, or by your killers –
shameless and not dead.
The lamps will gradually die, un-dieing us.
For we’ll live again.
In the confines of a cold
little tomb shut by a sigh,
your little maimed body
will die
as our Facebook, twitter and
our obese minds
will swim through the
Indian Premier League.
Some little weed will creep
from the graveyard as
Liverpool will probably play
the Champions’ League final.
Soon, you’ll be completely dead
and the World Cup will grip the planet –
England will probably win.
Days, months and years will crawl.
At every corner of the cursed continent, an Asifa will cry

and die.


Copyright: Souptik Banerjee

For anyone who cares:


Sorry, could have used the word glimmer somewhere in the piece, but didn’t feel like doing it.



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