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Bhaskar Thakuria Bhaskar Thakuria
Recommendations: 3

PIANO


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The last notes had died from the windows
And then, with the din that arises
Out of the humdrum of the meadows
Where the colliers speak in hushed tongues,
There comes the ebb of solace of a melange.
But, at the same moment, there ensues
The precarious moment when she comes
Forward, hiding within the range of her ken
A new rhyme that speaks of the little thoughts
That she had garnered up inside her mien.
The seat then unfolds before the piano,
And then we, like courageous bolds, can but seek
Solace in this new current of feeling that reeks
Of outrage against the humility of these
People, commonplace and morose.
For they despise her, all in her la di da airs,
That chose to engulf them in the throb
Of a music serene and sensual, and meters
That flowed out of the unseen motion
Of those dainty fingers that only probed.
And those keys, oblivious to the terse
Exploration subjected to by that rhyme:
Se bruler les doigts, went that verse
That she proferred to us at that time,
At that moment of subtle pantomime.
That was the euphemism addressed
To the mob gathered together, somewhere
In that timeless name day party where
They could only vent their wrath
At that spectre of evening mirth.
And one could have only seen, and waited
Until that moment when that veil
Of indecency chose to lift itself and
Reality showed its true metier in a well
Of new colours, of liberation, in our death knell.


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