Woodsmoke

The baked red playground simmers

With dust-devils dodging

The forsaken urchins

Who hop around on bare feet

More out of necessity

Than in the pursuit

Of any mid afternoon hullabaloo

And then it rains

It rains and it rains and it rains

It rains sheets of gray slate

That bury themselves 

At purposeful angles into the parched earth

And turns the grounds into

A parade of blithe explosions

A fresh army bursts forth

As the clouds recede in a rumble

Children poke at the collected dead grass trails

Push paper boats on haunches

And stamp their feet in glee

In the gathered pools of water

Till darkness falls

And the beckoning voices from the front porches

Start losing their composure

And turn into familiar threats

Dew descends from the clear skies

And the few patches of grass on the field

Turn into happy hunting grounds for crickets, toads

And fistfuls of fireflies that fly low

While their lesser endowed cousins

Get fatally enamored to

The tall lady with outstretched arms.

- Biswarup Sarangi

(A Soldier’s Lament)

I know not

What golden age

Awaits us

If we get through

These difficult times

I know not

How much more

We’ll pay

For stately whims

Others’ sins and crimes

I care not

For the colossal constraints

Or the apparent disdain

Of such myopic men

But if! Oh if!

We never yield an inch

I Know I shall not

Have died in vain.

 - Biswarup Sarangi