By Priyankar De
Can a bed be painful?
Cosy and comfortable, can even
the room become the nucleus of life?
Soft corners with pillows to ease,
The body lies down to dream
The life in luxury or delighting state.
But, ever thought of a bed…
…In dusty weather, under cloudy sky?
Surrounded by the cacophony
Of crying widows and the life-in-death?
Blood seeps down through a quarrel stick,
It lies with terrible pains, terrible gains
Of medals of the vows in life.
Lying here, l count each terrible night
But never quite wait to liberate my soul
Why, can you tell?
Because sleep was not there in my life
Nor was there any purpose in fornication—
A lonely human with no carnal knowledge,
Has no use of such attic existence.
Better to lie in my artistic bed of skill
And, with a hope of a proper rest,
As this is the time for no more zest,
Be patient for ethereal education.
But do remember my epic history in
And, as generations are terrific even in egress,
As they feel quarantined inside,
Remind them of my sleep,
Of my mass lying on a shaft mattress.
Priyankar is currently pursuing M.A in English Literature and Language from the University of Calcutta. Poetry is his hobby.