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Nighttime taxis remind me of certain piano music, Erik Satie or Gustav Holst.
I wake up dreaming one particular taxi ride with the town as a mute firework, Holst’s Venus, plague masked clown tilting his stovepipe hat, and as a never-ending deserted road.
The night is drawn toward the pallor of the dawn; drowning is not unforeseen. The bird that tweets welcome is the one that bids goodbye. What do I know? The poet lives chained to our basement. Elora may never go to a physical school, and yet we fill a box of tiffin for her with our thinning resources and pack a bag with books and notebooks, and pencils. She may never use a pencil, still, we sharpen their weapon-head as if our muscles follow a covert mission the agency has forgotten. What do I know? The poet lives in the basement and refuses to write what hurts him most. ....

West Bengal , Gustav Holst , Holst Venus , Kushal Poddar , Erik Satie , Positive Illusion , மேற்கு பெங்கல் , குஸ்டாவ் ஹோல்ஸ்ட் , ஹோல்ஸ்ட் வெள்ளி , குஷால் போட்தர் , பாஸிடிவ் மாயை ,