Abbas Panakkal

    A red telephone,
    sometimes smoothly
    showering summer rain,
    rarely roaring rave revolver,
    was bond to fall on my sleeping mat.

    Troubled my sound sleep.
    Attended in half sleep.

    The sound on the line
    hesitated to reveal identity
    and spoke like an intimate friend.

    It was beating about the bush.
    And dilly-dally on answers.
    The talk irritated me.
    The phone told:
    “incredible happened”

    Pat of pang pierced my heart.
    My pains were its prey.

    Fear shouted.
    Insanity scolded.
    The phone smoothly said:
    “you are dead”.


Abbas Panakkal -
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