Somoshree Palit
The land to which I do not belong –
You called me your own darling lass,
As smokes kiss moon-cheeks soft and pass
Soft night quivers ; for you I long.
As final tremors of a fading song
Die alike on concrete as well on grass :
Moon-lulls glint on broken glass ;
God slept in peace – the night was long.
O senorita – aye why should you cry?
Your ashes are holy with aching groans.
Murder and mercy rolled in your sky,
Queen of the East, blue deaths on your thrones –
O bury me shallow the day I die,
So you hear sweet love, the song in my bones.
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