To EliotBeneath the skin of every colleen,There's a snail.It shrinks looking at another rally of candles,Squeezes too feeling lips of her man,Smeared with different glosses.She screams at times,You raise the volume of your sound system.Ah!silence is peaceful,Only she knows vacant silences draw the curtain.Upon her stage,No great crime or chivalry is performed,As they are patent of the first race.It's like putting out some lamps,There's no word in dictionaryNamely hollow women.
-সোনালী চক্রবর্তী
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