SULAGNA DUTTA.

                         AMNESIA

The hazing smoke of my funeral,

Rose whirling in the air-

The smell of the burnt flesh,

And the memories despire.

Memories of tiny, minute desires,

Lives forgotten, yet alive in dream,

Smells along the smoking flesh,

Comes in front to scream…

My girl cries, my mother sobs,

My funeral flames and burns,

I lie still, burnt and smoked,

Past is participle, now its turns…

My amnesia, keeps me calm;

Yet I hear them sob and cry;

Today my insignificance, my absence,

Comes alive and strong, whenever they try.

But my days of weak head

But my days of disease-

Calls back the darkness,

Calls the days and freeze.

They pondered, they wondered,

They tried to keep the calm,

My mother cried, my girl sobbed,

They lost, to put balm…

I forget who I am, I forgot my friends,

I forgot my old new days-

When I was growing dead, when I had all debt paid,

They brought me back to stay-

Hazy mornings, and the bland green tea,

Heard some giggles along-

Quietly noisy the youth of mirth,

Few nursing made me strong –

But those neurons of brain,

Was sad and weak-

Those memories lived in dark;

Yet I wanted to live and to drive,

And to hope a lark…

Yet, my girl cried, my mother sobbed,

Told me ‘mad’ you die ,

Few comprehension, though amnesia-

Hurt me deep – to cry;

The serene nurse, and her hard work,

Was bringing me, falling for her,

The touch of love, the heal of health,

The smile tranquil, her far…

I remember her, I remember her Kiss –

The last healing hand,

Amnesia, that tolls me high,

Recovery that escaped with the quick sand…

The night of my death, I remember well,

My mother called me mad,

The doctor was called, twice,

The last injection made me little sad…

I knew the life if forgotten,

I knew that I am mad,

My girl will cry, my mother will sob,

For some days they will be sad;

But when I am dead, when I am burnt black,

When I am just some particle of ash,

Did they remember or amnesia dawned,

I knew I was treasured, well, Kept carefully out of trash…

Some memories are trash, Some trash goes treasure,

Some memories of life and smile –

Some debts, unpaid; Some dreams, not dead,

Those memories climb and pile…

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