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Soliloquies
I was crossing the street in red
with a few orphan words
In my left pocket, and seven
Question marks in my mind
I didn’t notice that guy behind,
A young traffic police in greek square
or old china town. I could recall
All those faces in grey, ochre or white.
Two clerks wearing the venetian masks
And two more saints playing an old
Fiddle – odd lonely tunes spreading
across the idle summer afternoon.
The lady cop fined me thirteen silly
Quids for breaking the rules
The priests asked a few more for
Coming to the church so late.
The mob yelled : insane insane! As they
usually do, but the clerks didn’t smile –
and only God knew it well, you just can’t
talk to him on sundays, if even wish!
Sutirtha Roy: Standing in the cross road, feeling deep within – a tadpole among the Slavs. Left with rusty stars in this pale grayish-white landscape,Prufrock’s baffled half brother, searching for words for the last thirty seven winters and still trying to believe - it’s never just possible to hold back the spring.
Email: Sutirtha Roy
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