Lokenath Roy Poems

Every myth has its origin,
what shall it be
for the one in me, none has seen?
.
...

I stood by the rusty railings,
of the huge cranking gate—
my gaze,
fixed on the branches all so brown;
...

A broken lamp,
Torn pages shaded of twilight,
footnotes of my name.
...

The armchair stands there;
what not
but an ode to your bloodshed
delicate daisy petals,
...

They built us among the sands,
laid us bare;
on the chests of flowing rivers;
mountains of majesty,
...