Sankhajit Bhattacharjee Poem 55

Scientific Research Fellow in University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee

BRUN

As the summer heat burns into ashes

the nectar of juicy nature,

my palm received injuries due to burn.

Seniors told me to work, not to act…

Pain of both crucified me

as if someone is hitting two big iron nails

in my palm to fix it with the wooden cross.

Human is rose without thorns,

but with them, one is more ferocious

than poisonous snakes.

My crucified palm is normal now

but the nails are now hitting my heart.