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Sankhajit Bhattacharjee Poem 54

Scientific Research Fellow in University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee


At my youth

on a white loin cloth

a black spot was given

I never know for what reason.

The essence of my expression,

the spirit of my creation,

the source of my writings

became a bird with cut off wings,

became a bird with slit throat,

my talents cannot but rot.

Then I was little,

my mind and heart brittle.

Still laments my inner self-

to myself I failed to provide help.

Now the gallant defeat in that occasion

renders me to declare war against every exploitation.

© 2020 Sankhajit Bhattacharjee

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