A City Night

Up on the attic
Of skyscrapers and whispering sighs
Melting in crazy dreams
Dizzy with pretty lies
I fall, fall, fall…
Oh that bottomless trench
It moves forlorn by
Along the roadside stench.
Some dimming stars
A pitch-black night
Cars whooshing highway tracks
Psychedelic lights
My desk is dusky
Windows near,
Breezes breathing smoky dust
And faintly I can hear…

My city sings of lonely voids
It touches, oh it feels my eyes!
The evening rain has died so long
Now it’s time for more goodbyes.

Shaggy motels along murky lanes
Cheapness flooding women of doubtful birth
Trudging tramps with staling cigarette ends
Singing aloud the tunes of drudging earth.
Skinny dogs rolling in wetted sands
The puddles still mirror-clear,
All I need is a sleep ahead
But still a throb can hear…

My city sings of lonely voids
It touches, oh it feels my eyes!
The evening rain has died so long
Now it’s time for more goodbyes.

Cozy cafés, heated warm in neon beams
Secrets clogged with stories old
Spilling bins and vodka tins
Caffeine, pleasure, bought and sold.
Dreary bus stops staring blank
Lovers huddling empty parks
Darkened trees all swishing past
Painted walls and watermarks.
Bygone music, records known
Transistors fade with use and age
The stubborn baby still cries alone
The labor-man still counts his wage.
Oh my tongue is dry,
With laze and fear
But hark once more
And I can hear…

My city sings of lonely voids
It touches, oh it feels my eyes!
The evening rain has died so long
Now it’s time for more goodbyes.

Kalboishakhi...

The gray whirlpool of the dead dust has leapt to life again. At last. At long, long last. A strange afternoon, I’d say, of swishing trees and fluttering plastic bags. And yes, the dimming lights of a faded day. It held many stories, mostly unknown, and some, half-forgotten among the everyday sweat… among a lull that brings anything but sleep… among the lifeless groan of tedium and monotony… among dreams that only enhance disenchantment.

The rain did not matter. Or may be, it mattered less than the wind, or the dust that revolved round a spirit of aggression; very characteristic; very familiar; yet enigmatic in a way that inspires nothing less of an unfathomable awe. In short, nature at its paramount in an indiscriminate brutality.
Every kalboishakhi is special. Each brings a different darkness. A different aroma. A different tinge in the psyche. A different solitude. A different rapture. A different whisper. The ruthlessness breeds ache and alleviation with the same intensity- twin sisters rocking in the cradle of quivering fervor with the sudden strikes of lightning thunder.

I let in the dust. Through my window. Through my eyes. I let in the storm… the lightning… the rain. As my body felt their cruel touch, I allowed my mind to soar into heights that seemed unreachable before. That seems unreachable every year before this moment… this dark… this music… this unrest.

It’s a moment of rebellion. Strong. Wild. Mysterious. Passionate. Beautiful.
I’m too moved… too feeble to resist…
I’m giving in…