The Bearers
/Fumbling fumes of funeral cots
Costs much of high tree,
A journey upon the muslin stained
Suburbs
The locale whimsy with religious
Chants,
Blowing the air with
the collective transcendence.
By the mid evening the bearers
Rush by the slimy trail
Smelling of the circling past
Of tram roads and English barons.
A city banked around
The nation's holy water
The drops pricy with
Cow dungs and household shaves.
The roads on the other,
Count progress and placards drums.
Still, the bearers pass by
Sighed and heavy mouthed-
The alley lisps with mid evenings
While the bearers drink away
the sunsets and moon flakes high,
Hanging around cost free.
While drops of labour make
a red dark whole
Of burnt rage and smoked grief.
By Sayani Mukherjee
From: India
Instagram: _sayani__mukherjee