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As I lie embryoed and growing in thy womb,

Innocent to the world outside, unaware in cosy bliss.

Do I know that my first wails would echo dead walls?

The marble of a sepulchre, the bricks of a living tomb.

Thy agonies while thee bear me lie in dust

As the tomb encircles us, in eternal boundaries,

Plinthed on an earthwork of hollow pride, mountainous egos,

Wrought in steel of centuries-old prejudices, in malice cast.

The tomb of the living dead beckons me with open arms.

Here I shall enter the gates armed the human way,

Armed with hatred, with an eye for who’s black, who’s white,

For who likes my God, who dislikes, for who differs, who conforms.

Thus I Prithee, grant me a wish, let me go unborn,

For the tomb will label me by my lineage, a label for life.

Here in thy womb, in this freedom, shall I breathe my last,

Safe and secure from the tomb where souls are stillborn.

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Samit Bhattacharya is a poet, author, traveller, history aficionado who has won literary awards in his halcyon college days for his poetry and short stories.
A techie from IIT Kharagpur, India with a passion for literature, he eats, prays, loves Keats and Shelley. He currently resides in Singapore with his family.