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Rumjhum Biswas
What muse do I expect
now?
What
muse do I expect
to
come visiting now?
Now
that I sit here
before
this wayward candle,
inert
pen and paper?
The
evening rests like tepid tea
There’s
a film of brine
upon
my cheek and salt lines
bangle
round my neck.
A
lazy Time magazine reluctantly brings
forth
a flutter of tepid breeze.
Salt
scales on the kitchen sink screech
under
my nails. Here too a candle
wavers,
ashamed of its rusty light.
A
line of ants lie vanquished
before
the chalk of death. A line
of
words die empty before
the
ink spills from my pen.
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