Thought – Part 1

Thought   Part 1 long poem

Photo by Mike Schmid

Morning is too cold, winter sun with least influence
Flickers with lost glory, the road appears dusty
Leading to vast rural field.
The man in front of you in shabby attire
In hurrying feet to attain his morning calls.
Thy feet in shaking timid manner have passed the native house, now it is left far behind.
Your posterity in inevitable slumber on morning chill,
Your predecessors, counting the last heads rolling over vast lawn.
The lady you desired, most beautiful in thine estimation
Is on city ride.
The narrow village river which you know for years
Has narrowed more by insufficient water,
Slit of oblivion finds upper hand.
Everything appears contained with little gatherings
You can not remember when your father and
Your uncle whom you liked and adored
Had walked in this cornfield last together
Nor the conversation and plans they contrived
To overcome the daily beatings of life
Before being fizzled out to native air.
This air, the same air on whose passing if
Any one lends his ears,
Will hear all the annals of many pitiable souls
Among whom your blood runs too close.
You know that what we call mysterious and
Inexplicable are incorrect and wrong,
The actual riddle lies on changing flavour of time
Which you miss most in advancing years.
The house you had seen in a place and its flourishing garden
Is no more.
The men and women on whose cradle you breathed
Happiness of childhood are legion of memories
Hiding behind dingy pit among neglected lots
A sense of guilt haunts your life’s thrill
An ever question smoulders on your heart’s conscience of fire,
How much have ye paid back their selfless company for you?
The evening is waiting for dusk call
Riding towards a vast cornfield with enormous setting is really a pleasure
So you ride on every Sunday evening for watching two sets of thing
From five to six, downing sun with crimson wings
And vast greenery soothes your tired eyes,
From six onwards, distant lights on other side of field gleam with faintest vision,
the shuffling feathers of owls with shrill pass surprises your drowsy nerves.
Clouds of August or July trace their rainy trait
So your eyes full of river because you are in talking mood
With a man most imaginative, most mysterious and selfless,
Whom you had seen in your native riverside often
Loitering over a small river bend where earth was too shaky and subsided.
Behind your back you may find your same father whom you had
Taken as most knowledgeable in early childhood and
Before the distant lights your light built uncle whom you thought most earthly wise.
It is not unnatural for you being in several places at one time
It is not uncommon to drive your emotative mind
Bristle with unsound anxieties.
The place you are standing in actually is not the land with native scent
The river side where you are visiting at dusk is your very voice of conscience,
The twits of innumerable parrots lording over a pond-side bower
Whom you are watching in most meditating manner
Before the lighting of an rainy cloud.
Your body remains in solitary field road closed by blind darkness
Your soul is attaining the city call of your lady sweet
Whom you looked as sister before long years
And her fervent passion for you, so of you
Set the tent among millions family lives forever.
The seasoned glow worms are on night patrol
So the owls and inscrutable bats,
Clouds breaking part moon on the head of village,
Your aunts are setting prayers on incandescent earthen lamps
Which appear full of glories than thousands diamond,
You know why? Your forefathers and all pious souls gather in this house lawn in every evening and sine,
The blinking red light over city highest tower looks more glorious
You may now with your same sister
Sharing celestial light when outer sky is full of thunders.

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Shuvo Chakraborty

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lecturer and advocate in university and incometax tribunal. an english poet and diehard follower of john keats
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