something on the veranda,
where gone the person
carrying newspaper
in hands talking
with terrace
garden,
sitting on the boundary wall, doves
are curious to know about the
graybeard, giving every
day pieces of grain,
with affectionate
eyes, calling
them
with sweetly, they flew from one corner
to others, didn't get a glance of
life, a walking stick is left
over near the easy
chair, but those
wrinkled
hands
have not existed, may be extinct into the
mist of early morning, depressed
sunlight waited for sometimes,
gradually gave up the search,
doves are mourning or
singing the love
songs, it's
difficult
to say, but they didn't come back again,
daisies have dried, the shadow of
stick now became longer,
night has knocked
the door with
moonlight,
--- SHANTANU SANYAL
