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