At some point a face not of the father, a mind unknown to the mother wake up from a dream, 'no one wants us' - none claim as their own, We, the monotonous regime of waves, marching one after the other, wanting to belong but forced to kiss the silent rays of the moon on our crown, Like diamonds cutting glass, iron sharpening iron, waves kill waves, men kill men Our hands are like flowers no, they are more like roots Some, travel back to - others, wait to sprout. --------------- Amitava Nag writes poetry and short fiction in English and Bengali with anthologies published in both the genres and in both the languages. Amitava has also authored 6 books on cinema till date. He has been the editor of 'Silhouette' film magazine since 2001. https://www.amitavanag.net
The Pine Cone Review 