I hold my bones
In the Urn of tears
When she walks across
River Rupnarayan
Tick tick, tick, tick....
The river runs into a gutter
Where Hope is a door
Somewhere
Turns for the final time, unnoticed
Land owned by people outside.
People outside
The great link
Think
The marginalised
Live by the roadside;
Have got no morrow.
Someone has grabbed
Their land and rights, their goats and hens.
Their forest land turned to shopping malls.
They only exist as human fossils
In history books.
Tears roll down like free flow of
Blood in veins
Recorded in red ink,
Connecting past with present.
(Note: Rupnarayan is a river that flows in West Bengal)
