School Of The Dead (A Passing Thought) Beyond the Panorama January 21, 2023

School Of The Dead (A Passing Thought)

indian poems

Alas for the ravaged girl, pallid and time-torn;

Bewitched by some brutish beast; how long should she mourn?

In some nocturnal blackness; inwrought some careless dream

Unbeknownst; whose weight has discounted smile from her mien.

Poor creature! A bedraggled fool,

Bled for louts, now feasting on you-

Why now lament your own child’s theft,

For them to tell you, your childhood years’ still left.

Soon, the deserts grew more deserted, no traveler left,

The brooks’ thawed, birds silenced, all hopes bereft—

You bended to your God, hoping for some hope;

Pity such piety; where impotence is the heroic trope.

Why then, you embroider rugs around the wounds

Only to allow them to kill you again?

I reckon, the reason must be painful to explain.

How do you pardon those who

Bit your pretty heart in two

How old were you, when you buried you,

How old were you, when you bid joy adieu?

Halt the marching time; there’s something I hear,

In this lone hour of despair

Or is it tender you,

Still awaiting them to judge fair.

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Triasha Mondol
Triasha Mondol

Writing to me is a keenest pleasure and the happiest indulgence. I engage in this pursuit for I think it’s a cathartic relief. Through the annals of what I write and have written, I attempt toward a disjunction from the corporal mundanity with total semblance to reality. For art is a mirror to the realistic. A tryst with the known and the unknown. I personify my poems to be a safe space. To write is to liberate my soul to the unfamiliar yet thousand times familiar with the presence of it. 

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