The Evil Day

Before some three or four-odd days
Began the nature show some craze.
The people, truly afraid, to say,
Nowhere did find a place to stay.

The initial portension was a fire,
That left a pile of ashes and mire
Of largest fort of Devonshire,
The making of a devil’s pyre.

Trembled, trembled everything!
And to and fro moved anything,
That was bound by earth insane,
Thus on the floor they’re strewn and lain.

I stared at top of the furniture,
And heaved to find their stately nature,
Then moments fleeted in a quiet,
With farms and huts, being fine and trite.

No longer, though, prevailed this calm;
Crescendoed slowly omen’s hum;
Inaudibly was audible
That faintest screech of strongest rebel.

On all directions fetish hung
To combat dread that evil flung,
And worshipped Christ’s generous hand,
“O save Thou us, our potent friend!”

But sinner must be most of them,
Or why from God did these trials stem?
Or not Him, but a freak of evil,
Did hurl a woe, so grand and ill?

There blew no air, but still fell down,
Glasses brought from Chinese town,
A pair of steady dolls, whom loved
My cousin, she them fondly preserved.

That morning when at last did came,
No man stayed outside, nor a dame;
The children too did stop their game,
Little children, hard to tame.

They all were scared, and none did dare
To foretell what was in the air,
Uncanny stench was all felt there,
In dense settlement and fields bare.

“See, quiver, quiver all the things!
The church-bell timid itself rings!”
And wandered lonely a frightened man,
Oft he strolled and oft he ran.

My mother prophesied a ghoul
That might again on mankind drool,
Had overwhelmed us with spells of terror,
And did our sin in this way mirror.

But as far as can I recall,
A graceful sphinx o’the palace hall,
That burnt and turned into baleful earth,
Wrought a mishap in highest mirth!

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Sarban Bhattacharya

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The spurt of corporeal pleasure is like a restive brooklet that falls into the serene but colossal ocean of peaceful rapture of mind.
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