Enlightened, the man begins. Begins with an eclipse. Eclipse not of the lesser light, but the light of the lesser man.
And it was seen through by many, visible, yet not seen to.
The colours of that blotch of light become apparent to the enlightened many,
Where shades are branded by taste of prejudice and craft of meticulation.
How will those laureates associate this frame?
Or will they again politicize it to keep it one of those transient oddity,
That is so cleverly inexplicable to the expectant men?
Who under the banner of a local NGO,
Assemble the outcastes to outcry their universal red.
And strangely then,
Curse the bank for unavailibility 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 daughter of Zulfikar Ali.
The very couple men and manly, become oxymoron.
Ironical 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.
PS: I apologize to the victim, if any sensitive inscription I stated above, has hurt any sinsere sentiment. And unending regards to that person who considers, in his own lucid way, that “moon had always been of special interest to me!”
p align=”center”>© Shamasis Bhattacharya (Twentyone Innovations)