The earth is lying becalmed under a fierce sun,
My dark corner is but so cosy under my humble thatch-
The cows mowed, the birds lay in their siesta-
And I gazed at my tattered past.
Oh so tragic, for the past is no phoenix,
Just if it could rise...
The lilies drooped, scattered clouds motionless stood
As I stared at the cotton of the sky-
Far it had thundered
And life was unleashing upon the dead;
The ash won’t rise but a seed would-
I planted one, perhaps it shall rain...
-23\11\97.Calcutta-63