There’s no use
in singing songs of love.
Anymore.
Here,
Men are pelting the weak with stones.
Men are razing to the ground
innocent cities,
turning them into tourist attractions
for posterity.
Men are dealing in fellow lives.

Now, as I look at my songs,
stripping each of them slowly
of their embellishments,
I find they only tell tales.
Tales of how you’ve loved me
or of chronic dissapointments
common to all loves.
They have no place here.

I close my eyes.

All my sentences swim
before my eyes,
loosened from their punctuations.
Like ephemeral streams
they hold in their fleeting existence-
hollow dreams, and scenes
that are no longer beautiful.

Then it loses its way.

There’s no use.
There’s no use of them.
Anymore.

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Debtanu Sen

Debtanu Sen

I am as normal as they come. Anything worth mentioning, cannot be mentioned succinctly.