The cotton has come out like intestines:
The pillow is torn yet again.
Where the inkpot fell and broke yesterday-
The ink has produced a blue stain.
The bedsheet is crumpled like paper
Where I held it tight in my grip.
And that blood on the novel is because
I bit it along with my lip.
Those few things are the signs that tell me that
Last night I had been in pain.
But as with the sun I rose in the morn
Like mad I was laughing in vain.
Was it because of some happiness or
Because the pain has ceased again?
© amit shankar., all rights reserved.
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