Shamasis Bhattacharya

Enlightened, the man begins.
Begins with an eclipse.
An eclipse not of the lesser light,
But the light of the lesser man.

And it was seen through by many,
Visible, yet not beheld.
The colours of that blotch of light
Become apparent to the enlightened many,
Where shades are branded by taste,
Of prejudice and the craft of meticulation.

How will those laureates associate this frame?
Or will they again politicize it, making it one of those transient oddities,
Cleverly inexplicable to the expectant men?
Who, under the banner of a local NGO,
Assemble the outcasts to outcry their universal red.
And then, strangely,
Curse the bank for the unavailability of different groups!

Since they cannot lift up that 'thing-who-must-not-be-named,'
For they know what must not be made known,
The mystery down the rabbit hole,
To curb the genre following the widow of Solomon Bandaranaike,
And the daughter of Zulfikar Ali.
The very couple, men and manly, become oxymorons.

Ironically though, when the cult strips
In front of her nanogamical bed-warmer,
With the light that is stoopingly seen.
Clouds still remain a veil for the taboo.