The Agony Of A Fallen Star (Sonnet Sequence) Poem by Dipankar Sadhukhan

I. The Marketplace of Flesh

Not temple gates, nor mosque, nor hallowed dome,
But crowded walls where lustful footsteps tread;
Here merchants trade, though not with spice or loam,
But bargain hard for flesh instead of bread.

No prayer ascends, no incense scents the skies,
Yet smoke of greed pollutes the murky air;
The buyer's eyes are coins, the seller cries—
A woman's heart is weighed against despair.

The painted mask conceals the soul beneath,
The rouge of sin, the crimsoned lips of pain;
Yet still they smile, though death is in the breath,
For hunger binds them tighter than the chain.

Here love is dead, yet lust forever thrives,
And souls are sold to keep the flesh alive.


II. The First Night

At sixteen years I crossed the iron door,
A trembling lamb amid the butcher's floor;
The night was black, and stars refused to shine,
When fate consigned my tender bones to wine.

Some demons came with laughter fierce and wild,
Their breath was fire, their kisses venom-styled;
My tears were gems, they scattered without care,
And stripped my hope till naked in despair.

O cruel hour! That hour has never fled,
It haunts my dreams and crawls inside my bed;
The first caress was like a serpent's bite,
It drank my soul and left me cold as night.

Yet still I live, though every dawn I die,
And curse the hour that taught my lips to lie.


III. The Brutal Bargain

With thousand coins they buy a two-hour sin,
Or pour their gold to claim the whole night's stay;
Each touch a theft, each kiss a ruthless grin,
Each whispered vow a dagger thrown in play.

No love resides within these curtained walls,
No tender hands, no heart that ever calls;
But iron grips that bruise like tyranny,
And beasts that drink the honeyed lips of me.

They crush my breasts as men would press the grape,
They use my flesh in some mechanic shape;
No sigh of joy, no ecstasy of soul,
But tides of lust that drown me in their shoal.

O God! If heaven hears a harlot's cry,
Then let me weep, or grant me leave to die.


IV. The Broken Soul

Each dawn I dream to flee this loathsome den,
To cast away the clutch of beastly men;
Yet chains of gold are heavier than stone,
And shame builds bars more cruel than iron throne.

Society, that saint with painted face,
Would spit on me and curse my fallen grace;
No gentle hand would lift me from this pit,
But stones of scorn would tear my soul to grit.

Thus I remain, though longing to be free,
A bird in cage that lost the sky and tree;
I sing for love, yet only money hears,
And drown my song in seas of endless tears.

O fate, why bind my breath with such a chain,
Where life is death and pleasure turns to pain?


V. The Cry Unheard

They call me whore, yet never hear my wail,
My silent grief that storms without avail;
No ear is tuned to catch this bitter note,
For gold has sealed the lips and crushed the throat.

By night I burn like candles on a shrine,
Consumed by hands that darkly intertwine;
By day I walk a corpse in painted guise,
With broken heart behind the laughing eyes.

No tender arms, no kiss that springs from soul,
No sacred fire to make the spirit whole;
But only flesh, that coin and passion buy,
And dreams that fall like ashes from the sky.

Yet still I pray, though prayers are vain as breath,
For love to bloom within this bed of death.


By Dipankar Sadhukhan
Kolkata, India..
Copyrights@June29,2025.