There are no breaking news at the moment

Articles by: Daipayan Nair

Martyr’s Futile Tenure

Martyr’s Futile Tenure

Let’s not extend it to an ‘end’; your lips, thirty two barricades for my fleet
I once had whiskeys of your sigh, I had laughed off the ice
Beyond the border, two hundred lovers in order
Your desire for the garment martyred mine, my gun shot your soul thrice

I Am The Last Crop

I Am The Last Crop

My harvest without a red bell
From my farm
Beneath the well
Watching those eyes burn
Even when few clouds assist
And few turn soft pillows
Making it my debt
I am the last crop

by Comments are Disabled Arts/Literature