Poem-A-Week: Lopamudra Banerjee
Ars Poetica: The touch of the land, strewn with blood drops, the burnt, roasted smell of the anthill of poetry.
The sky threw darts, the earth melted into the cloudburst of uncalled revolution.
Ars Poetica: The touch of the land, strewn with blood drops, the burnt, roasted smell of the anthill of poetry.
The sky threw darts, the earth melted into the cloudburst of uncalled revolution.