Page 7 - Reflectoem | Issue 04
P. 7

Born   in   Asansol,   West   Bengal,
         THE LIVING...                                                              India, Moulinath Goswami writes
                                                                                    poetry   in   Bengali,   his   mother
                                                                                    tongue  and  in  English.  Writing  is
                                                                                    his   escape,   his   meditation.   He
                                                                                    writes   prose   and   does
                                                                                    translations   in   Bengali   and
                                                                                    English.   He   writes   regularly   for
                                                                                    the   prominent   magazines      and
         M O U L I N A T H                                                             periodicals   of   West   Bengal.   His
                                                                                    first   collection   of   poems   ‘Dayal’
                                                                                    has   been   published   from
         G O S W A M I                                                              Prativas   in   the   International
                                                                                    Kolkata Book Fair, 2020








            What does a graveyard do?
            Cradle rotten skeletons
                maybe some mistletoes too
            What does a graveyard do?
            Cradle dead bodies
                maybe some memories too
            The grave has kept them all-
            Scented sentiments
            of summers and of fall...


            Mummified corpses of another day
            Stirred from their sleep

            Took flight and found their way
            That memories die
            the open window only knows
            is a blatant lie
            The window has seen it all-
            How the dead came alive
            and shattered the wall
            How it took a fragrant while
            to moisten the eyes
            and bring out a smile...


            What could the graveyard possibly do?
            Collect the tears
            and water the mistletoe...
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