A Portrait Poem by Ajit Das

As I scavenge the piling waste of life,
an obscure face,
a stolen glance on a crowded corridor,
a startled blush in a chance encounter,
soiled remains of a half-torn draft,
a clandestine note,
left out as trifles,
but hidden deep in the heart,
now come to memory
on a wave of arrow sharp freshness.

They are the touches of colours,
still unfading, missing
from a portrait, heavily painted,
bounded in a frame.