Wednesday, 24 November 2010

The cuckoo clock

nothing would be permanent, the clock
does not to do so, still the blues shines
as usual, i left the conference decade ago,
the name plate s letters faded , dust
covered the passion as blooming season
said good bye, the diary s delicate stanzas
might be flown in the rapid wind of life,
i found my wet emotions fluttering on
the twigs of dried bamboo trees,
the moon went up  slowly above
the ruins of sentiments, turbulent flow
of the lake acknowledged  my face or
not, God knows , the foot prints were
washed away by the waves, some
incomplete poems, dried roses were
floating near the edge, i have nothing
to prove my presence in your life,
the cuckoo clock is silent, as the bird left
the cage, but its working properly
pendulum says its now midnight my friend
morning is a foreign national.
-- shantanu sanyal