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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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