Sometimes I think; is it pertinent to be minute
About nature’s details, to breath her full?
The overjoyous soul to an overall vision,
Deprecated as naive in God’s grand feast.
When the clouds are deep and too black
Enveloping the hills and bowers;
Or floating over lake water in a hurry,
Can they be discreet to avoid a clumsy soul?
O common sight on hillside at eventide
Being graced with droning crickets innumerable,
Hidden not in strife and pale of life.
But in glory of eves and on cradle of leaves.
If a soul lends an ear to such marvel,
If a soul counts the stars till they mingle with morn;
If a soul smells all beauties half hidden,
Then passion be denied of its rightful place?
Grace is the name of countless flowers and weeds,
Unaccounted army of decoration;
Ordaining all the nature readers to unknown pages;
Where death, pain and sorrow fade in pleasure’s race.

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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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