Day after Day I Turn
Day after day I turn
Where no turning goes;
Then some knowledge stops me
Where I stand, or lack of it, I don’t know.
Where is that inward play I used to know?
Not here, where every prickling wish into doubt
Or confusion grows; every thorn and shred of bone
That grasps, or bites, or thrusts, leave me more
In the brooding mimicry of stone, the soft black
Cinders swirl; the thin, rasping sounds belong to me,
My breath it is that tears through the howling wind,
Harping on these twigs the same old tune.
A slag-heap, dead and floating, that’s what it is,
Each death, a renewal, every rebirth a renegade
Frolicking round and round the unfolding layers
Of the rippling air—
Layer after layer, the darkness brings forth light.
Pub in ‘Prachya Review, Bangladesh , 2015