Urvashi Babajee

It might not be that way to hope

Cruel, like sin, in the Universe of darkness

Colours of dust – death or rebirth?

Is all this real, why not just in my dreams?

Deeper than the eyes haven’t seen so much more

Nothing, just to haul the weight of memories to return

Burying my youth, like a brutish Queen

Across the Indian Ocean, two betrayals, a slow drift of inauspicious concurrence

So why not disappear my heart and bones?

The kind of resistance, difficult to endure, only the smells of past and present

An absent body listens to nothing, a portrait of the diabolical: wasted neurons and blood flows

Muted to the choice of trial and error, with thorns in the flesh

My Universe is unable to move to the rhythm, a feverish body – warmed by the sun.

I tremble to my very own breath, as my last voice. There’s something, I can’t!

Perhaps, only capable in the world of Gods and Goddesses.

Rest in the lap of sacred soil, no other than becoming a poet, a mortal

Or, in an afterlife – of a rare fragrant, the blossoming season of Renaissance. Could it be true?