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Modern Poetry>Alokeranjan Dasgupta
Now Peace is Also War

I can't really make out if we're at war or at peace.
I imagine the deceased assembled at some solemn occasion,
merely sharing hand-picked novelties of grace and experience
with the sundown; yet as I sidle up really close to a sunbeam
I notice they are auctioning off the dusk.
It would be hard to say if it was autumn or winter, in a black
hole in the sky I suddenly see the tussle of the seasons,
so soft and yet so inconsequential - not as when the seasons
are engaged in an allegorical interplay and finally
one overcomes the other in accordance with the will of a biased
producer in an amphitheatre. No, they only want to reduce
perishable mankind into stillness. That is why they allow
some indeterminacy to remain in the cosmos - and that too has beauty.
However, if I'm unable to contain the limits of life
clearly within one definition, then it's a catastrophe!
at such a thought I split heaven and earth
on either side of me and watch as the cloud
approaches cautiously, wanting to stroke the haycock;
the hay too wants to say something, but since each word
would be an assault, it draws itself tighter together ?
can peace be maintained under such conditions?
Either the war never really ended, or else is over.
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