Poet- Oohini Mukhopadhyay
What was that smell,
Like an endless drizzle had finally imbibed desiccation.
Like a lamenting crow had surrendered in isolation.
A subtle sense of native hollow,
silhouettes of the deeds casting a shadow.
Gazing through the dungeons of the subconscious,
behind the overrated smiles and unheard cries,
something murky and obscene lies.
The utterance of which knew no bounds of mortification,
an ever-lasting scar, paralyzing the system,
However, it is sometimes brutally necessary
to make a slight error in judgment,
because to live as an intelligentsia might cost.
And who says, fortune favors the bold,
Doesn’t it always define the anonymity of gold?