You swam in tears of the Furies
eluding epiphanies of mourning;
the elegy lingers thwarted in corners,
deep in underwater mattresses
where everything porous dissolves.
The sea is unyielding, unlike earth
turnips and foliage float over coasts
hidden by folds of rupturing tides.
Above, we are all left with wars,
unbridled in cacophonies
unlike the density of withering.
All that blooms is not evolution,
you, amid the sticky barnacles
tether gulfs within the Underworld
know the breadth of bones.
When Orpheus retreated his feet
within the expanse unknown,
passing ancient civilizations;
in oars from the Byzantium epoch
he sailed through like sand in fire,
remade into quasi-portions.
The legs do not know the way,
mindful of their own skill.
Soaked in thorns then; he made
his way to daylight, your vision
disappearing like granules of sand
he tried to hold too tightly in his palm.
When not conjuring axioms for the anthropocene, Sneha Subramanian Kanta observes the residuals over coasts. Her poem 'At Dusk with the Gods' won the Alfaaz (Kalaage) prize. An awardee of the prestigious GREAT scholarship, she reads for her second postgraduate degree in England.