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Soumili Roy



Soumili Roy




2 mins 359 2 mins 359

The city is in tears and

The doctor said it will heal,

The incisions will wound up 

The hurt will let go.

Put salt water in its staining

Mouth, the agonized bruises

Inside the city's body will bloom Dahlia 

Fluffs, perfume scent, and Urdu notations.

Our city yesterday did not fat shame

The man with wrinkles lining his body

Like art figures. He, I saw, held close

The ticket stub against his double-breasted

The suit, sobbing beside wooden tables

And lakes because he never owned

A perfect body. The pastor is 

Grinning at Gods, enfolding his tender

Hands over prayers he used to hum

Inside the four walls.

The city is going home

In a crowded bus drawing pattern 

On the fog-tinted window and

There is a woman’s standing with a baby,

Her hands firmly gripping

On the holder iron pipes. She is a mother.

The city looks at the marks stretching on her belly 

Like fine masses of stars-tired standing in

Hotel pubs. My lips part, gently

Revealing happiness after watching the marks

Out of which the human race is born.

She is beautiful and so are her marks.

I'm happy and

So is our City.

I returned and slept.

4:45 am.

The windswept summer sunlight is

Flooding the tiles now. 

I watch how my father's eyes are stuck in

Today's newspaper. 

City smiles that someone cares. The elevated

The dock is filled with warm regards, prejudice

And government bills.

The city is frowning again,

Its face is pale with fume tragedy

And mirror shards. The crown on its head is

Becoming heavier and it needs to change.

I am tapping

Away slowly so that nobody hears. Our city 

Is about to wail 26-letters in a lullaby and

I can't help it wipe off. I'm not helping at all.

I'm a citizen with serpentine eyes selling

Kisses in glass bottles. I could help but, no.

I watched our becoming happy again,

Staring blankly at the ballerina tying white laces,

Pacing up before the show curtaining up.

But her tip-toe hurts, her legs hurt, her smile hurts.

All the fallen angels instead of rose petals hold 

Expensive cigars to their mouths now.

And the  

Is fading in lines, then in dots. Slowly. Slowly.

The city is attired in regimental sorrow; blue buskin 

And sad socks.

I wish we help City love, grow and be

Happy again.

Can we please?

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