Debashish Haar

In the Mirage of an Insomniac Dream

In the endless spiral stairway of echoes
The poem is the air that sculpts itself and dissolves.

I want to name it in ancient skies,
I want to follow the roads it travels,
I want to restore life in crushed names,
I want to restore their honor.

I built a mansion of words
In the city of reflections;
It was a sleepwalking tower
Always waiting for the wind!

There are times when words drink,
There are times when page breathes,
There are times when poem plays sonata,
Yet it guards the castle of memoir
In which it is the sole prisoner.

It is eclipsed in charities,
It appears in every form of vanishing,
In the mirage of insomniac dream,
In the abandoned gardens of memory,
Searching for the sense of its symmetry!

In the endless spiral stairway of echoes
The poem is the air that sculpts itself and dissolves!

Pearls Were the Priests

In this whirlpool of reflections inside the amphitheater
The trapeze artist is the empty eye.
Ideas are splattered in red, green and gold,
Swarms of flies ate the colorless pearls.

Pearls were the priests
But now the colored swarms.

All the priests became concepts, enormous chasms of bile.

Then the idols exploded with the priests,
The amphitheater became a dung heap�
Disabled ideas sprouted cannibal deities!
Dogs in love with their own vomit!

The eggheads who were stained in ink,
Spawn crustaceans that look like men.
This house of swarm extracts
Is shooting high up into the sky!

I Can See a Window Behind Your Face

I can see a window behind your face,
A mask that changes, a mask that walks,
Mask that talks and hears,
Mask that has seen�all lies!
Mask that cannot understand the truth�

Window opens in a window,
Which transcribes its shadow on the sheet of wind.
Shadows discover themselves in a heap of reflections,
Reflections that play shadow dice with the curtains�

Wind sculpts the curtains, and solidifies,
While the mask turns into a corridor
Adjacent to the window reflections�
Each channeling out narrow streams of light
That fear and die before meeting the eyes,
Eyes which are in search of the foliage
Behind which they lost a memory mansion!

Face has grown pixels with years,
Face has shed few pixels in those years,
Face is a monochrome reflection
In this color sucking magic mirror!

The mask and the face play tricks on each other;
The face cannot remove the stains of lies�

Ink Burns

On the alabaster skin of the morning,
Beneath the cliffs where the wind retracts,
The rising sun dances.

I begin to draw the transfigurations
Skimmed on the surface of inkwell,
I set on writing my prose.

A smoke covers up my writing,
Issuing out of the ink!

There is a forest in flame on my page!

Flames leap into the boreal sky,
Earth belches fire,
Till sky falls to precipitate its anguish!

On the drum of earth,
Rage-broken downpour dances!

You enter my porch,
And cast your shadow in darkness.
I can see your dimples,
I see your pregnant eyes�
That starves to flow.

I am lost behind the broken bones of sun,
I am looking into a pair of eyes,
Eyes that lost their memory!

I am burning in this forest on my page!

Untitled

Dream inscribes its letters, secretly,
In dawn�s safe archives,
In invisible ink!

The darkest blood survives to birth
Orchids of revolutions on the pages,
Or the bubbling of cadence in gardens
Of wounds that never heal!

I can see better with eyes closed,
As the phrases drill through time,
Waiting at the end of the tunnel!

Endless inkwell of transfigurations
Walk through the verandah of echoes,
Past broken limbs of time!
Hushed fountainheads!

In this desolation
I see people falling on themselves,
In sleep with eyes wide open,
Falling without moving.
A sleep, a falling with no return�
A descent towards a space with no datum!

Waiting inside the tunnel�
Even the blind can see the shape of wind,
The deaf can dance in the spiral stairway of dream!

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