Jasmina Khatun
Inside the time capsule, a violent jolt—
in a single flicker, the machine lowered the sky’s own earth.
It did not take long to find them:
pairs of seeds, paddy, sacred grass, and a lamp arranged upon a ritual plate.
When the earth’s hunger rises beneath the ailing clouds,
an earthquake begins—slowly cracking open
the chest of the motionless plain.
Then, upon the body of the wind, frost-white terror gathers,
and on the horizon, the weeping of a lightless night remains awake.
At dusk, a waterless river hears a pulse
running through the veins of soil;
upon dry branches resounds
the sound of a miraculous fracture.
Inside the room, the small lamp trembles—
even light is afraid to hold on;
in the sky’s miserly breath,
every unseen shadow writhes.
The level earth keeps calling
with the tune of a new birth.
Beneath the ailing clouds, at last,
rain descends to cleanse old wounds.
Inside the time capsule, a violent jolt—
in a single flicker, the machine lowered the sky’s own earth.
Rampurhat, Birbhum, India
