Mandakini Bhattacherya
Every sleep has its destination,
that it sometimes reaches.
It leans against the wall,
smokes a cigarette,
waits for things to dawn, –
mainly droopiness, heaviness of the eyelids.
Sometimes it takes baby steps,
figures the ropes of a carousel,
looks askance,
and hops into colourful dreams.
(A sleep is not a man, it goes back and forth,
it has no duties to be chronological.)
Sometimes, sleep sits on its haunches
in despair,
scratches marks on the wall with nails,
waiting.
Sometimes, sleep gouges out its eyes,
cursing the rest that wouldn’t come.
Every sleep is you and me
dressed in white clothes,
looking towards a ruddy heaven,
to live, to die, to race, to fall flat,
to gather feathers falling from the trees,
looking to be reborn.