Sreetama Mohor Das
They caught him tight, held him as his hands fit into the frame,
his mouth still blabbering his only princess’s name.
his cindrella, his snow white, his sleeping beauty, his rapunzel;
all his stories vanishing in the air the others inhale.
but what’s the point in that? they’ll eventually breathe it out…
they’d simply assimilate it as another experience, in their body cells
rotate and re-rotate it in their bloods
and let it out; to put out dinner candles.
inside his room he was pushed, rather chained to the iron chair.
the brownish crown glass blocked the morning glare.
the clang shut of the door didn’t move him;
rather did their whispers outside.
“He’s been out again, didn’t you lock the door well at night?”
“he’s dangerous indeed…he shouldn’t be freed;
as for now, let him remain tied-
till he realizes that his daughter has died…”
the room was shabby, cold, damp and shut.
the nail scratches on the concrete walls left prompt marks of blood.
her potraits hung from the ceiling, cleaned and maintained well.
this was his third year of insanity…everyone could tell.
but what those filthy asylum walls couldn’t understand-was that concrete doesn’t cure lunacy;
If it’s not in your hand.