Author: Sarah Das Gupta

From my window only darkness

in the nearby cemetery.

Then I hear the jackals,

howling in the night.

Sheets of lightning show

dark silhouettes of ghostly trees,

broken headstones, tangled creepers.

Then in my dreams,

I hear it still:

the echo of barking

through an impenetrable jungle.

a pack of jackals still pursues me,

fangs barred, ears pricked,

eyes yellow, amber, gleaming.

These are the spirits of the dead.

Dogs of the underworld

hunting, howling, at dawn and dusk.

Lovers, dancing cheek to cheek.

Outside, snow drifts

pile against walls and windows.

Fingers of moonlight touch

snow-dressed trees,

pools of darkness

flood the lonely house.

The music quickens,

the tempo, throbbing, insistent.

He holds her closer,

whirling past skeletal chairs,

while rags of black curtains

flap against broken shutters.

A bare bulb hanging from

a dark cord, swings madly,

casting crazy splinters of light

over the mold-covered walls.

The dancers, now silhouettes,

become one shadowy outline,

Twisting, twirling

caught in

the mad crescendo

of music,

blind to dead, eyeless faces

pressed to cracked windows.

He feels a stab of pain.

Sharp incisors

piercing, biting

into his neck,

tempting smooth skin, blue veins

Music screaming, darkness descending,

blood running freely.

Valentines, vampires

blood lovers, brothers,

dancing cheek to cheek.