half a kilometre away the
Ganga is a bruised
half-sunk lore.
lovesick youths
throw whisky bottles
and swear, rust-lipped
and somehow the nights
are without stars
i remember-
mother throwing coins in the
water. now stillness
feigns her face
the same way, kisses
fade on these mossy steps
leaving nothing but flashbacks
©Mohana Das
insanebloom 
This is just lovely Mohana. Simple in tone but complex contrasts. Beautiful. K.
Sacred Ganga’s Ecology echoing
…your restraint leaves much to the imagination here…a plaintiff sadness yet sweetness comes through.
Mohana, you write with such lightness that your words lift up off of the page. Very nicely done. Thanks for allowing me to read this.
Pamela