Love yet to be won
bliss yet to be recovered
Strong smell of false promises
one finger bleeding in a corner
the wind ruffling the scarlet curtains
A deflated world map lying
on the crumpled flowers, on the ruffled bed.
The knife has slowly slipped from her hand. It
has fallen and with the strokes of the light,
the blade has gathered some life in his glutinous hand.
Enough to make him divide death.
ONE OF THREE
Before the woman, there’s the smart windmill
turning obediently to the wind’s authority.
Behind her, the wonderful sunflowers
shimmering passionately on the blue carpet.
Above her, fervent ravens in the limitless sky.
Standing at the base of the triangle,
she knows she has to follow only one of
these three routes: either turning the turbines
of the present to grind the past into oblivion,
or striving to shine in this world of bigotry,
or reaching the stars by surrendering silently.
She decides to toss a coin.
Amit Parmessur is a poet and teacher. He has been published in several print and online journals. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web nominee, he lives in one of the most beautiful islands in the world, Mauritius.