For all his wild hair like an aureole, Stammer at parties, slipping from a tram, Putting off the mending of a sole, And putting on a mock-heroic Damn!, He notices the spider’s intestines Claim harlot, smuggler and blackmarketeer, And in the clicking grin his eye divines A moody world of artifice and fear.
Above all, this: When a woman turns Black clouds of hair, with a rhythmic hand Weaving their silk in the possessive sun, He sees her common eyes stretch to a land O lost, lost; as when repentance yearns For hope,and love, and finds that there is none.
Purusottama Lal born 1929, in Punjab - India. Poet, essayist, translator, professor and publisher. Founder and publisher of Writer's Workshop in Calcutta where he lives presently. Under the name of P. Lal, he has written eight books of poetry, over a dozen volumes of literary criticism, a memoir, several books of stories for children, and dozens of translations from other languages, chiefly Sanskrit, into English. He has also edited a number of literary anthologies.