Mornings have lost their notes of innocence.
The daze of days quiver with a dissonance.
What was once known like a neighbour's kind face
is now memory's vapour, smoke escaping an incense.
War's a sport, laughter staged, justice a rank joke.
Celebrations phone-y, meaning unhinged mid-sentence.
Listless evenings grow limbs and crawl vermin like
Music is only falsetto, squalling without grave sense.
Try loving still, Bhaswati, you don't get two lives.
Stop obsessing over yesterdays, transcend that fence.
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