I'm thinking of the patterns of the verse
from Bengal, of the turning Ramprasad
and qualitative Sanskrit. The lights course
about my being like the movements of
intervals in a music. Language I parse
reveals her formal body, I'm seeing grammars
veil her arms and legs. Are words a curse
on our plain being? Is this language what
engenders suffering? The stars are sparse
because of city light, turn out the lamp
of your own corner. There is nothing worse
than breathing air without you, than breathing
under sky without your glorious verse.
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