No, the world does not stop
Because you cannot be its receptacle,
Because the craving for food has driven
All thought of truth and beauty from your stomach
And to your nostrils the sounds of the day
Wear but the keen, rust-sharp scent of hunger
And no heroism, no martyrdom,
But the jolting bitterness
Of scorn felt at the face in the mirror.
© Arka Mukhopadhyay, 2006
