Because love is beautified disease, we align our scars
under rain trees. And the stories, they pass back and forth
like cards and the moon, it ravages the night's fur to fury.
Our scars, we align each to each. We whose touch maligns
even the rain, we who anointed the one-eyed king,
we who scratch at love like at the underside of a coffin. Anything
to point our cigarettes in some direction like spears. To set off
small fires. Your heart has thinned, you say. It subsists
on pickings. They say common sorrows are commonplace.
A hyena will laugh at what it claims. These days, your face
begins to crack like curd. My offerings trickle down your runnels.
This is the land of forgetting. No children play here.
- The Eye of Horus, Anindita Sengupta
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