In the Sunderbans* the shadows were long And diaphanous, reaching up to the grey skies Outside the huts, the trees were crooked And leafless, bearing the burden of our sins Against the child's shrieks at the phantom's coming. In the city, the nights are dreamt once again, In broad daylight, among several theses.
All the while, in the backwoods, a yellowed daily Was witness to cultural history being re-enacted. Meanwhile, there was fever rising in our blood Strangers at midnight attacked us for our secrets A little girl laughed at the dreams in our head, Outside the room, from the fever of her own blood.
*( literally, beautiful forests, the estuarine forests of Bengal, the home of the royal Bengal tiger)