COVID 19 Artist Feature Six: Suchismita Ghoshal

Love in The Time of Corona

I met a boy in this time of lockdown

when the waves of death are slashing

the world brutally,

and I am allowing myself to be his prey.

His vocal cord veils the sweetest melodies,

his tongue wraps the cozy words,

cozy enough to calm my stress-filled brain

and the way he lights up the rooms of my heart

are extremely satiating.

When he talks, I feel God has landed here,

in my home to shake hands and congratulate

me for the second chance

to fall in love.

His songs turning addictive day by day,

or else I am letting his songs

to be addictive enough

to keep my soul intact in this time of isolation,

as unfortunately this isolation holds no solution.

I feel God has sent him to lure me again.

His everything feels like God’s existence as if

God wants to talk with me,

God wants to share problems,

God wants to laugh with me,

God wants to cry with me

God wants to dine with me

and God wants to take me to make love.

My quivering hands, trembling soul

and unrest mind knows all the things of love.

I ask God why I didn’t feel him like this before,

The last one left me in a facade of destruction,

opening the skyline to pour despairs on me,

and my skin didn’t understand

it was a sign of goodbye.

His arrival unfolds flowers in spring,

and he might be the reason of sudden

change in the weather.

I don’t want to send him all the credits

but I can’t help appreciate his calmness

which I’ve not seen before the time of Corona.

Everything in him turns exquisite unknowingly,

and I still fear my motive for him.

The past thing went appalling

and now a stranger turns close.

My brain dwindles in the confusion every time

to leave me in an emergency of constant

reaffirmation if I am still a remnant of sadness.

Because sadness comforts

and happiness distracts.

I don’t want to be distracted

because the distraction of love results in partition

and the partition chokes me to desolation

and the desolation invokes for the night of solitude

and the night of solitude prays for God’s appearance

and God finally appears

to heal you again with a L-O-V-E.

Metaphors are pestering me these days,

and I exactly know when they come.

They come to me when I slowly heal

only with the touch of love.

Last time when several panic attacks

almost knocked me down,

I was saved by my mother’s love.

But what if a disaster comes with the hint of God?

Does God misspell my words?

Doesn’t he understand that I wanted a second chance to heal, not to self-destruct with love?

Doesn’t he know how I settled myself to be sad alone?

These days I have been so focused

that I regularly take a stroll to the terrace,

feel the breeze hugging me for the recent heal

and come down to lock myself

in the four walls to write intense poetries.

A reckless girl jumps in the pond of serene.

A serene that can be vanished right after the lockdown,

and the lockdown that can be withdrawn soon,

and the withdrawal will definitely bring

a pause to hear his mellifluous voice,

and the mellifluous voice will wrap up

the constant messages,

and the constant messages will end with a pause,

and a pause will constantly make me crave

for his touch,

and his touch will strike me with his memories,

and the memories will leave me in an urge to see him,

and the urge to see him will

bounce back the tinge of unrequited love,

and the unrequited love is nothing except the plan of God,

and the plan of God doesn’t seem like the second chance,

and the second chance doesn’t contain the recovery,

and the recovery in which I require

and the things I require never come in a straightway.

Never ever!

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