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by Jagari Mukherjee
(Kolkata, West Bengal, India)

If you think that I am your traitor
Then accept my silence forever –
There is no need to speak.
Once upon a time, my lips were eager
To utter accents of love for you;
To let flowers blossom with every kiss.
That time is now past, a tale of pain,
Of jealousy and torture, and I have chosen to forget
That flowers ever bloomed.

Oh wait – I changed my mind –
A few last words before my silence...
In fact, I now see
Blue thistles, scarlet roses, and green berries
Growing all over the woods, that Nothing
Needs you to grow; perhaps you were right –
I am your traitor because I would not believe
That the world – or at least my world –
Turns upon your words, your plans,
Your ideas, your warped fragile spider-web of life.

Am I a traitor for escaping your web,
That you tried to weave with threads
Which you claimed were silk and gold?
If so, then I am delighted at my treason,
To have escaped from your prison
Of false promises where you tried
To turn me into a frog in your well.

Go spread your tales about me,
I refuse to be, not only your frog,
But also your star, your moon,
Your angel, your damsel, your nightingale...
Nothing of mine is yours, or ever will be –
I shake you off like a tiny speck of dust;
For me, you disappear into oblivion,
While I dance among blue thistles
Celebrating my treason with glee.


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