multiplying melancholies

(on reading black literature)

in the midnight dream

a chilling Robesonian note

digs into the bones deeper and deeper

and awakens me to the cries

of hounded herds from dark continents

Hailey’s page murmurs under my charpoy

and calls to collect the lost roots

in the native soil…

Ngugi, my uncouth elder brother comes home

bringing a grain of wheat

and a bowl of blood.

and Harry returns to the reality of

clash of colour and class

and becomes the Black Bolshevik…

my bloodshot eyes are wide aghast

at the black experience !

the black blues rippling round and round,

black bards bellowing bleeding bugles,

black birds pecking at the cage bars.

i am awoken, my dear black brother:

yes, being black is no different than

being dalit.