The Wife's Lover And The Blazing Light Poem by Pranabkumar Chattopadhyay

Part 1
So many kinds of lovers bathed in light—I never tried to understand.
A lump of flesh bloomed into a moon, wrapped in cloudy fabric,
A dividing line lit by the magic of a hand.
That hand wandered across the moon's mountain, tracing ridges,
Descending into the sevenfold abyss of pleasure beneath flower petals.
Though not my hand, it held strange light—
A milk churned from progesterone and estrogen,
Drawn from the ocean of desire.
By mistake, it lit another lamp,
As if from a realm of illusion.
I was its sole enchanted spectator—
You, the actor, and your lover!
Part 2
Is there courtesy in your intimacy? I wonder—there should be.
But someone, a venomous daughter of Bengal,
From the sycophantic circle blurts:
Was it love or not? It wasn't rape—they're all conspirators!
Suddenly, lovers raise their hands and shout, "It's consensual packaging! "
The clang in the air stirs a wild vortex of joy,
And the lover, with his iron rod,
Strikes a tremor through sand and clay walls.
From the tunnel's unfathomable depth,
Heat bursts forth—Waves of boiling lead, streams of red lava
Spill from her illusory body, a metallic exodus.
That molten metal claims the evening's dominion,
Even the husband, nearly inert,
Gazes in sensory intoxication,
Leaving behind
His scorched body and unreal churn.
In that virtual time,
His wife's body becomes a script—
A million inscriptions,
Each contour revealing
A mystical cave of Ellora.
Drifting from the Amu Darya,
Touching the shores of Bakhshu,
It finds magical melodies in every corner of Mohenjo-daro.
No one forbade such a radiant, lyrical day.
If poison and flesh are erased,
A new Bhagirath is born again.