By Susmita Chatterjee Alias Aloakash
He would walk
Till he reached the blue lake
The sky had decided to give up his reflection
To the blue lake
And transmute himself
That is how he sought to retaliate against pollution
His legs too heavy and toe bleeding
Acid rain
His fine garments all tattered and torne
Patched with factory smoke and dense fog
His colour no more blue, but grey
He hated the smog so much
Puss oozing from his wounds
The odour repugnant
The sky wanted to feel his body again
The sky wanted to breathe fresh in the drape of stars
The sky wanted to play flute with the songs of the sun and the moon
But tired, too tired he was
“Sky is an illusion”, they say
The sky sat under an oak tree beside the blue lake
Two canaries were making their bed
They came out of their nest
Hey Sky!
They said together
He looked up at them, his darling selves
And remembered the freedom of flight
That he enjoyed in their wings
The canaries kissed him, with his favourite song
His body melting and mating
The blue lake transmuted to a golden antelope
The canaries sat on his horns
And they disappeared in the trunk of the oak tree.
The leftover of the sky is a dead jacket.
By Susmita Chatterjee Alias Aloakash
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