My Mother knows not the Taste of Meat
Let the hurdles fall apart,
if only my mother could claim
a portion of her life;
for a day.
Not that she complains,
yet her forearms continue their labour
quiet, practiced.
As though effort were the only language
she was given;
my mother knows not the taste of meat.
She bends over the soil,
with years of forfeiture
folded into her spine.
Her hours went into my becoming,
cruel it feels now
to realize how freedom can vanish without chains.
How one may choose a cage
and call it duty?
my mother knows not the taste of meat.
She nurtures life,
often without nurturing herself.
Barely honoured;
almost never resting.
Gentle in her vulnerability,
asking for little,
touching less
unfamiliar with indulgence;
if only my mother knew the taste of meat.
Under the relentless sun,
beside the river that skirts the field,
she imagines herself
a bird of her own will;
only so that I may learn
how to dream.
Through her eyes
my future takes shape.
I venture, I move, and so I sail,
carrying the thread.
She quietly narrates,
wherever the wind permits.
For though
my mother knows not
the taste of meat.
What Refuses to go Blind?
For the nights they’ve endured,
between wars and borrowed fights.
I believe love must persist
even when truth is forced;
to hide its face.
Countless moths I have seen,
never permitted to be butterflies of their wish.
Pressed beneath careless steps;
their spilled red mistaken for silence.
I have heard, they talk of freedom
yet, spoken in hushed whispers.
At the cost of living honestly,
I wonder how the sky appears
to those denied from their rights,
even the right to life
their eyes allowed to see;
only what the veil permits.
Chalk lies abandoned on the streets,
circles once drawn by children;
who believed in games.
Now they linger in twilight,
too young for darkness,
too tired to hope;
still waiting for a break in the night.
On a far-stretched deserted path,
a cactus barely survives at the edge.
Above me, the open sky;
below, the ground that holds my weight.
And in between them
my faith stands:
untaught, unarmed, unafraid.
Take my sight, for you must,
but spare the heart that remains.
It knows no forgiveness by forgetting,
no love without consequence;
nor belief without cost.
The Canvas of Becoming
In the paradox of this life,
I have shaded my canvas
in strokes of grey.
It cost me nothing,
except for the miseries;
my life had long withheld.
I have watched countless stars,
yet never became
the one they named.
Even the moon of my pride,
seemed to abandon my sky.
For them,
I left behind
what was known;
and still I wondered why.
For though
the hope that sustain me has not yet faded.
Like a flickering bulb
in a dim house,
it trembles,
but it remains.
I will rise.
And these rusted chains of doubt
that still restrain my steps
I will break them,
stone by stone,
until a new day;
stands where the old walls fell.
My enemy is not the world,
neither thee;
but the self within me;
that fears its own becoming.
And still,
to claim the sky,
my heart will dare to soar.
Let them witness
when my ascent
reclaims my pride.
About the Author
Siddh Dutta,20, is from Kolkata; he is currently pursuing B. Com (Honours) along with CMA as his profession. While his works chiefly explore solitude, inheritance, and human experience, drawing from India’s cultural landscape, they also capture ordinary emotions revealing deeper truths about belonging and resilience. An alumnus of St. Xavier’s, Panihati, and former intern at Kolkata Literary Meet (2026), Siddh reads and researches Indian poetry, understanding its traditions and voices and have worked earlier with some reputed literary magazines. He continues to write, reflecting on contemporary life, personal memory, and intimate spaces, shaping his literary curiosity and voice.
