Dancers

by Arpan Roy


we, dancers, are all that remain

of another, ancient terrain;

that which is impossible to exit

completely, where remnants of language

snake around the pulse

of unforgettable words—

       mother,

       god,

       sun...

and where the only refuge from the heat

is in the shade of two palm trees

making love, like a licentious green octopus

with savage eyes; the world is dead

without passion.

we dance what cannot be stirred.

look, the only life worth living is hollow.

consider it a voice left to blow itself

through a whisper,

and there's nothing to see at the gates

of the city you love

but more cities just like it.

we've built what cannot be danced.

but Krishna was a dancer too, you see,

when he stood on a ledge of the Chrysler Building

preaching the Gita

with suicidal extremity

his movements were exquisite.

and we are all that remain of every terrain

pushed to the back pages of archaeology magazines

that nobody bothered to proofread.

but listen to me:

we have inhabited this planet

for an exceptionally long time,

and our dance is a monument

braced for a carbomb.