Written by Ayush Banerjee
Blue-eyed raven,
I can write so much about you
Tell me,
please:
When do I stop
and where do I find you at dawn?
My blue-eyed raven,
paint the walls with the color you bleed
they’ve been unheard for too long
and deserve every drop of your tender black,
draped in the fabric of your inevitable vulnerability.
Your eyes still hope at every other face
and those lips-
the brittle foreskin took on life
whilst the inner skin was as tender
as the wings of a butterfly.
If I ever defined you as an idea
maybe it’d be a gentler death
in a garden black lilies, that had,
for long, despised regular red roses,
as I place my final desire
to stare at the naked tree
quivers, that, for every fallen leaf
it cannot feel anymore;
my blue-eyed raven
my sweet raven,
you’d be the hollow jar
where I’d feel empty no more.
Blue-eyed raven,
o’ mine,
I’ve been to naive
and I’ve been too afraid
to hold your hand,
for if I must touch your skin,
all I’ll ever be left with
is how solemnly pristine
it’d made me feel.
Lately I’ve wondered
how sinful peace can be-
to watch them hold your hand,
from a distance,
arms around you with drops
of faith and filth on a mirror
and if the reflections break,
dearest raven,
you’ll find me always
if you need me ever.
I shiver with the thought
of losing you,
keeping you at a distance
will be my greatest regret
and every time I falter,
bring my body close to yours,
I recall the nights when I’ve realised
that you were never mine to keep.
My blue-eyed raven
I haven’t seen you for so long
yet if I need you around
I vividly recall you smiling
and often,
I’d cease to define us,
for you’ve taught me,
Oh! so well,
to be free.
And mankind often repents
for you could never be caged
and the oppressors are held captive
under the shrine of your bitter-sweet revolt
that shall last forever;
you’re the bird
that makes them regret
the very notion of birth
while you watch from above
their infamously flawed existence.
Written in the prophecy:
“He who shall trap the feathers
of the blue-eyed bird,
shall fall into the ruins
of his own wrath
swearing by
her holy black.”
My blue-eyed raven
fly away,
fly until you reach eternity
for the shackles
of tradition, custom and values
were as brittles as their ideas,
were never meant to hold you,
fly away and I shall meet you
where every brook forms a river
where every sky touches the ocean
where your heart bleeds into nightfall
where you’d lie in a meadow of wildflowers
and I’ll lie beside you,
to admire every part of you,
in ways they have never been touched before.
Every gargoyle you rest upon
bears the naked imprints
of your glory against agony.
